


The Things That Matter

by everythingisgreenandsubmarine



Category: Pink Floyd
Genre: 1973, Awkward Romance, Bisexuality, Broached coitus, Broken marriage, Lavish Hotels, M/M, Marijuana Use, Repressed Memories, Roadies, Self-Denial, Self-Reflection, The Dark Side of the Moon Tour, alcohol use, indecent language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:48:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24432343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everythingisgreenandsubmarine/pseuds/everythingisgreenandsubmarine
Summary: During the Dark Side of The Moon era, we follow Roger and David as they discover the undeniable, intoxicating feelings they have for one another.
Relationships: David Gilmour/Roger Waters
Comments: 54
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little something for you peeps while I try finishing up chapter ten of Darkly Deranged David :)

_18 June, 1973_

  
  
  
  
  


As I sit on a plush, red velvet sofa in our dressing room, backstage of the illustrious Roosevelt Stadium, I puff nervously on my Marlboro cancer stick. I am fidgety. On tenterhooks. The gig’s over; the boys and I have already done what we do best, and everyone seems satisfied. But it’s just _that_. The very source of my apprehension comes from the fact that the gig is over, and I now have to face what I’ve been ruminating about all day. 

Chatter, raucous laughter, and music surrounds me, penetrating my own little bubble. This dressing room is probably about to burst on account of the absurd amount of people that are inside. I’m certain I don’t even know half of them. I see Nick, standing far off in the corner, talking to some chaps I’ve never seen before. It’s possible he only met them earlier today, and is already unnecessarily spewing intimate anecdotes. Rick is also not sitting, idling by the beverage table and engaging in crosstalk with some broad he would probably like to get handsy with, but knows very well that he should not give in to dirty infidelity in the slightest. _But he is also sort of a milksop to begin with._ Our manager, Steve, has a whole cluster of people around him. _The life of the party, everyone._ Some of them are part of our crew, and the others I’m not familiar with. There are young girls in the bunch, too. What I assume to be groupies are roaming about, trying to find some action from the band. One of them even comes up to me and grabs my hand, trying to get me to stand and go somewhere with her where it’s isolated and quiet. I refuse. Somewhat politely...Not really. I blatantly tell her I’m not interested and to leave me be, and immediately, she knows better than to pry. 

And then I see the familiar mass of honey brown hair in the clump of strident folk. _David._ Then I’m yet again swallowed whole by my unease. It’s that really unpleasant feeling, like when you had to present a big project in front of your whole class. Your palms sweat, and your heart pounds against your chest, as if it’s a wayward animal writhing and whomping to get out of its cage. _Why are you all standing? You’re all making me nervous._

The reason for my disturbance is...I can’t even think about it openly. Somehow, I have a feeling people will know I’m thinking it and bombard me with unwanted judgement. With a tincture of retribution in it. But I have to remind myself that it’s okay, and that nobody knows or will ever know. Just a classic case of paranoia. Anyway, my conscience hasn’t been in peace since this morning. To backtrack, yesterday was the first gig of the second leg of our North America tour, and for this very reason, the boys and I thought it would be a brilliant idea to get absolutely soused after our performance. Which we did do. Excessively. And after stupefying ourselves with alcohol and cackling like morons at crummy jokes in Nick’s hotel room, David ended up slurring to me an invitation to his room to “watch the telly" and "play backgammon". And I of course, through my addled mind, thought nothing of it. 

Well, the game of backgammon never happened. He did turn on the telly, and sat through a cheesy comedy show with me for what felt like a while.I can’t really remember the name of it, nor how long it was. But after _more_ laughter at _more_ crummy jokes, we had gotten into a lengthy conversation about cars and upcoming gigs and bowling. All miscellaneous topics, really. At that point, the bloke knew he had me under his thumb, me being oblivious to his intentions. It wasn’t until his lips were suddenly smashed on mine that it finally clicked in my momentarily bovine brain why he had invited me to his room. 

And I didn’t stop him. 

My mumbled response to his brazen action was something along the lines of “You tricked me,” and he simply chuckled softly, leaving my remark floating in the air unanswered. At the time, it didn’t even seem wrong. I let him touch me and kiss me and whisper sweet-nothings in my ear. It didn’t even seem wrong when he climbed on top of me and switched off the bedside lamp and undressed both of us. Nor did it seem wrong when he put me in between his lips, and slipped me inside the clench of his body right after and quietly rode me. Only hushed pants and repetitive movement filling the room. It also did not seem wrong when he let go all over my chest. Nor when I did the same inside him. All of it felt right. 

And then I woke up this morning in his bed. He wasn’t next to me. He wasn’t in the shower. My best guess is he was in the cafeteria of the hotel grabbing breakfast. I was left naked, mortified, and with the surprisingly vivid memories of the previous night’s unforeseen fornication. 

As I painfully replay these scenes in my head, I remind myself that I have to talk with him. I have to acknowledge and discuss with him what we did, or I might go mad. I have to clarify that it was wrong, that we should regret it, and that it will never happen again. We’re going to have to be on the same page, or I don’t know how I’ll live with this or be able to continue being in this band with him. 

With all of the courage I can muster, I stub out my cigarette in a nearby ashtray and stand. 

I try to make my way over to him, slithering through the crowd and muttering “Excuse me” to several individuals who don’t care to move and make way for me. When I reach the group surrounding him, I tap him on the shoulder as his back is to me. He doesn’t turn. With an exasperated sigh and wonted eye roll, I tap him again. He turns with a goofy grin on his face. Immediately, I want to shrivel into a little ball where I’m safe and millions of miles away from him. 

  
  


“Yeah?” he says loudly over the music. 

I lean into his ear, “I need to speak with you.” 

“Huh?” he makes a dumb face, and brings a hand over to his ear. 

“I need to speak with you,” I say more loudly, now with a slight tone of hostility. 

“About what?” he asks me, and I want to whack him over the head. 

“Just come with me.” My eyebrows furrow so he’ll see that I’m very displeased. 

  
  


He visibly sighs, but there’s still an evident trace of a smile on his face as he excuses himself from his group. He follows me towards the door of the cramped room, and out to the long corridor. What a difference in the temperature of the air. I walk further down the corridor and around the corner to the undisclosed backdoor I already know is back there. He follows behind me, two or three feet of space between us. 

  
  


“Could you slow down, perhaps?” he jokes. His voice is full of humour. 

  
  


I ignore him, and pick up speed on purpose. He makes a gratuitous remark about how long and fast my legs are. 

As I reach out for the backdoor and walk through the doorway while placing with my foot a door stopper into the thin opening under the door, he asks me, “What do you want to speak to me about?” I ignore him again, and go a little ways away down the desolate alley. There is a light bulb above the backdoor, so I’m still able to see his face when he stands before me as I lean against the wall. 

  
  


“What? You didn’t drag me out here in the cold for nothing, did you?” he says. 

  
  


The more I look at his face, the more I want to kick him where it'll hurt. The sheer fact that he had me in his mouth last night is making this so awkward for me. Those eyes, they were looking up at me from below and oh, God, I want to disappear. 

  
  


“I...need to clarify some things,” is the first thing that comes out of my mouth. 

He crosses his arms, “Okay.” 

“Last night…” 

  
  


A slow smile appears on his face. 

  
  


“...Was a mistake.” 

“A mistake,” he repeats, looking amused. 

“Yes. It was very wrong. It should’ve never happened,” I say very firmly, “It will never happen again. Are we clear? We were both very intoxicated, and had no idea what we were doing, yes?” 

“Mmm,” he coos, “I disagree with the last part.” 

  
  


_[Not on the same page. Not on the same page at all.]_

  
  


“Okay...Dave,” I say, sensing impending doom, “It was a mistake. I feel an abundance of regret, and you saying that is not helping. Are we clear that it’ll never happen again?” 

“I don’t understand. You didn’t seem to feel this way last night. You were...you were very passionate. In fact, you–” 

“–I know,” I snap. “I just want you to agree with me. I want to hear you say that you regret it, too, and that it’ll never happen again. Can you say that for me? So I can live in peace and move on from this.” 

“Excuse me, but you don’t get to demand what you want to hear from me. I had a totally different experience, so I’m sorry if I've disturbed your conscience, but I have absolutely no problem with what we did. And as for it never happening again? I don’t understand. Sex is sex, Roger. It happens.” 

  
  


I sigh dramatically. Of course this is not going the way I wanted it to. 

  
  


“Fine. Whatever. _I_ have a problem with it. _I_ regret it. _I_ never want it to happen again.” 

“Fine, whatever,” he mocks me, the bastard, “I don’t mean to disrupt your ‘peace’, but I feel no regret whatsoever. And I don’t see what’s so wrong about it.” 

“You don’t _see..._? You’re my fucking bandmate, Dave. This isn't normal.”

“Why are you so negative? Christ. You said it yourself, we were intoxicated.”

“ _You_ lured me into your room!” 

“And _you_ came right in.” 

“How the hell was I supposed to know you had intentions of shagging?” 

“I thought you’d pick up on it sooner, honestly. And why are you so worked up? Nobody will know, Rog. I’m not telling anyone, if that's what you’re concerned about.”

“I just want it to be clear to you...I am not a homosexual.” 

  
  


Two seconds of subsequent silence go by, then he snorts, smothering his laughter. A wave of affronted vexation washes over me. 

  
  


“Did I say something funny?” 

“I mean, Rog, you...Are you sure you’re not gay? ‘Cause...we _did,_ you know...And I saw you reject that young gal earlier, so I don’t know, mate. You could very well be–” 

“–I don’t appreciate being watched, Dave. And I do not wish to continue this conversation any longer. See you inside.” 

I start to walk away when he says something else in confidence, making me turn to look, but it’s short-lived. “I enjoyed it, by the way. Just so you know...If you’re even mildly curious.” 

  
  


I leave him in the cold. The backdoor, I know for a fact, does not open from the outside, so I take the door stopper inside and heinously hope he enjoys going all the way around to the front of the stadium and shuffling in all the way to the dressing room. Even after he’s voluntarily expressed his approbation to me, I don’t bother telling him all of this. 


	2. Chapter 2

_28 June, 1973_

  
  
  
  


We’re slowly but surely approaching the end of the tour, and the boys and I couldn’t be more elated. Tomorrow, we’re heading off to Tampa, and before traveling to Europe for the last few gigs, we’re to have a nearly four-month, well-earned stopover before falling back to the grind in October for Europe. We’ve been at this since last year, so I think it’s about high time we take a much-needed breather. Thinking about it now, I’m not too sure what my plans are for those months. I’ll probably take part in plenteous and unhealthy– _Healthy–_ loads of golf with friends, write more material for future Floyd creations, and go to pubs and shows. Away from all of this hectic madness. 

After tonight’s gig, everyone—including some of our crew—was starving, seeing as how we only ate lunch, and that was hours ago. 

Following the unanimous consensus for one last, practically-midnight repast, we landed on a homey, Caribbean-inspired restaurant. Just _boisterously_ strode inside as if we owned the place. We all comfortably sat around a round table, and had piña coladas with cocktail umbrellas of various colours sticking inside. With the exception of soda pop on Steve’s part. _“Someone’s got to drive, right?”_ I stuck my bright pink umbrella in Nick’s bouncy curls, and was undoubtedly thrilled when everyone else followed suit and proceeded to give him a headful of flamboyant paper umbrellas. He didn’t seem to be bothered, grinning stupidly at everything and solely concentrating on devouring his wood-grilled turkey burger. 

Aside from Nick, the majority of our orders consisted of shrimp tacos, beef empanadas with a delicious cilantro cream dipping sauce, and roast pork Cuban sandwiches. And Steve, yet again, ordered something very particular and unlike the rest of our dishes: some weird fish stew that we dreaded the moment he uttered the words “...the Caribbean fish stew, please.” Steve has a tendency to enunciate certain letters in his words, making it very difficult to stand in close proximity to him when he’s had strong coffee or pungent food. For the rest of the night, we avoided asking him complex inquiries that required complex answers. 

Near the end, we ordered dessert. I had a plump slice of hummingbird cake that was rather tasty, and reminded me to visit bakeries back in England to see if they have it. All had been going well, overall. Everyone appeared to be in good spirits, and it seemed we needed this. To just hang about together, eat good food, crack jokes, and have foolish conversations. All was well, until the second I felt something brush up against my left ankle. Mid-bite, I looked across, and found a smirking David. I immediately scowled, and he mouthed his hollow apology. And in an instant, I replayed in my head what transpired between us nearly two weeks ago. Like a slap to the face. My appetite for my dessert suddenly vanished, and I pushed away the little plate. I thought I had completely blocked the unpleasant memory, cramming it all the way to the back of my mind where it should’ve become insignificant. But I realized I will never be able to just erase it from the chamber in my mind that houses memories. It will always be some sort of strain to our friendship, if I can even call us friends now. 

For the rest of our time in the restaurant, I was silent. 

We’re in the lobby of the hotel now, walking in like zombies with no sense of direction. Passing the front desk and arriving at the first corridor, nearly the majority of our crew, along with Steve, scatter away to their rooms, sleepily murmuring to us their parting wishes for a good night’s sleep. After their departure, Alan and Peter travel up to the eighth floor with the band and I, saying that if it were possible, they’d have no problem with marrying their beds and frolicking in Dreamland for eternity. While in the elevator, with mundane bossa nova sounds emitting from the speaker above, I feel a graze of warmth and fuzziness on my forearm, and I don’t even need to look to know who it is. I turn away and roll my eyes while suppressing a long, exaggerated sigh, lest the rest of them probe. Is he doing this on purpose, insouciantly stepping over boundaries? What does he want? A repeat of what we did? Or maybe this brushing of the ankle and forearm means nothing and they were just meaningless accidents, and I’m overthinking? 

The ding of the elevator sounds when we've reached our floor, and the metal doors pry open for us. Our two roadies go left after saying their farewell, and the band and I go right. 

  
  


“Anyone up for a last dram? There’s some mini bottles in the fridge,” Nick whispers playfully. 

“You _would_ ask,” Rick answers in the same tone, “But I think we can all agree that we prefer sleep. Got to wake up early.” 

  
  


Nothing much is said after that as we reach our suite. I normally don’t mind sharing a whole suite with them, as long as they don’t unnecessarily pester me when I need my space. 

The first thing in the room upon entering are the two beds that Rick and I claimed, preferring the view of the balcony overlooking the city over the snoring of Nick, which David has to endure tonight. _Ha._ Rick immediately plummets face down on his bed the minute the door opens, having no care for changing into sleep attire or a nightly routine. David disappears into the other room, and Nick is the first lucky one to use the bathroom to change clothes and do whatever he does when preparing for sleep. I think about showering after he exits, but I decide that I could just be the first to rise in the morning to do that. 

I enter the toothpaste-smelling bathroom after Nick exits and goes to his shared room with David. I do what I usually do: change into comfortable pants, brush my teeth, floss, and wash my face. While patting my face dry with a nearby hand towel, there’s a very soft knock on the door. For some reason, I think it’s Rick, judging from the strange timidity of the staccato contact of knuckles against wood. Maybe he’s decided against not brushing his teeth.

  
  


“I’ll be out in a sec,” I say. 

  
  


Gathering my discarded trousers from the floor, I leave the light on for who I assume is Rick. When I open the door, I find it’s very much not our keyboardist, but David who’s standing there with that slight smirk again, the light hitting his face and making every feature on it stand out even more. It never ends, does it? 

  
  


“Are you going to join me while I piss, or…?” David quietly says after I’ve unconsciously stood there in his way. 

  
  


I hastily leave, moving around him without touching him. The lights in the suite are already off, but I have no difficulty finding my suitcase to fold and place my trousers in. Sleep is beckoning, luring me in by the second, and I happily succumb as I finally lie down. My eyes close on their own, but no matter how tired I am and how much I endeavour to shut everything out– _Like the inconsiderately loud opening of the bathroom door when he exits–_ I simply cannot forget the look David gave me at the restaurant, and just now. Those eyes, there’s something strangely potent in them. Like he’s pushing me, daring me to do or say something that’ll cause me great regret right after. They’re so intent, so piercing. This look of cool intensity, it was there when he was looking up at me that hazy night, fingers delicately around me. So calmly intense that it’s disguised as being a natural part of him. He makes it look so effortless. Is that just his face? Or is he intentionally doing it to bewilder me? Does he want me to think back on what we did, in some sort of attempt to make me want him? That’s ridiculous. I shouldn’t even be thinking about it, because it’s irrelevant. It meant nothing. _So why am I dwelling?_

I turn on my side with a huff, hoping and hoping that counting my breaths will help. The image of David fades away by the minute. Soon, it’s darkness clouding over my mind. 

  
  
  


.. .. ..

  
  
  


I’m balancing on the thin ledge of an impossibly tall building when I feel the urge to jump off, because I know I will be able to soar in the air and have my bird friends flying alongside. I brace myself, feeling the harsh wind blowing through my hair and I’m suddenly tipping over euphorically, and diving down and down and down and down…

...I don’t get to fly, because there’s an annoyingly silky voice right next to me and repeatedly saying my name. I jolt awake as the dark in the room engulfs me, and I catch the blurry sight of David’s silhouette. His hand is on my shoulder as I try to keep my eyes open and blink away the last remnants of my blissful dream. 

  
  


“Mm?” I drowsily mumble, still not fully aware of my surroundings, only grasping the fact that it’s David in front of me. 

“Roger?” he whispers, “You awake?” 

  
  


I inhale deeply, groaning lightly with my exhale, rubbing at my eyes. 

  
  


“Roger,” he says again. 

“What?” I answer now, feeling the tinges of annoyance creeping up. 

“You awake?” 

“No, I’m asleep.” 

He sighs, “Sarcasm always _has_ been your strong suit. But I don’t want to hear it now.” 

  
  


He sounds very slightly distressed. 

  
  


“What do you want?” I mutter in a whisper, arm over my face. 

“I can’t sleep.” 

But my arm suddenly rips away out of the unwanted anger I feel. “No. No, no, no. Absolutely not. We are _not_ going to–“ 

“No, no. Calm down. I just wanted to know if you had any sleeping pills...Or some grass.” 

  
  


And heavenly relief flows through me. 

  
  


With a sigh, I ask, “What time is it?”

“Not sure. Four, maybe.” 

“So you’ve roused me from my beauty sleep at four in the morning for, what, grass?” 

“Or sleeping pills. But preferably–” 

“Dave,” I complain with a groan, “I’m trying to sleep.” 

“I will stay here until you’ve given me an answer. Don’t test me, Rog.” 

“Fucking hell...I have some reefer in my suitcase.” 

“Rolled up?”

“Christ, yes, just take it and go away. Please.” 

  
  


He stands and seems to be going away, but he momentarily stops to whisper something else. 

  
  


“I’ll be on the balcony. You’re welcome to join me...If you’d like.” 

  
  


I hear the movement in the room as he takes the dope from my belongings, and quietly opens the sliding glass door of the balcony. I can see him now, with the curtains drawn somewhat. I see the yellow flicker of my zippo lighter as his hand hovers above the joint in between his lips so as to block off any breeze. He puffs. Twice. The exhaled smoke lingers in the air around him, but only for a few seconds before it completely dissipates. I’m completely awake now, cursed with the new memory of his warm hand on my shoulder and how his hip was pressed against mine when he was seated on the edge of my bed. 

I get out of bed and make my way out to the balcony.

At the sound of the sliding glass door opening, he looks at me but doesn’t say anything. He turns away, but that damn smirk. 

  
  


“I’m only here to smoke,” I defend myself, “I bought that, therefore, I should smoke it.” 

“I didn’t say anything,” he murmurs mischievously, passing the joint to me after I’ve sat on the chair beside him. 

  
  


We smoke in silence, letting the quiet, occasional zooming of cars fill the absence of interaction between us. There is not one time our fingers don’t brush when we pass the joint to the other, and every time it happens, I want to pull away. It’s not that I’m scared of him. Honestly, I don’t know what it is. I’ve always found his presence calming. Pleasant, even. I’ve always admired his ability to be optimistic about everything, and how he’s sort of reserved, but when there’s a moment he needs to stand up for something or somebody, he does it. In a heartbeat, with no hesitation. But now, I find him to be nearly unbearable, and I know it was probably stupid to come out here on the balcony with him, but I couldn’t help it. I’ve never found him unnerving, until now. Him, with his big, blue eyes that evince his quiet, but somehow vehement intensity. He _is_ bewildering to me, because why else would I come out here? The idea of not being able to fathom the way his intensity is starting to make me feel... _That_ scares me. 

I take the chance to furtively stare at him when the joint has gone out, and he has to relight it. He’s wearing a different shirt. Despite the fact that it’s the middle of the night, the moonlight allows me to only discern that his shirt is a light colour. Not white, but perhaps a light blue. He’s wearing dark shorts. Black, or navy blue. The hem of them is just above his knees, maybe higher. White, ankle socks clothe his feet, as he has them crossed. His hair is tucked behind both ears, but loose strands sway and fling out of place due to the light breeze. His back is completely against the chair, whereas I am somewhat sitting on the edge. How is he so relaxed? Does he not find _me_ unnerving after what we did that night? Is he really so in touch with himself? And his hands...So strong and broad, yet so soft and gentle. As much as I hate to admit it, they handled me like an expert. Every touch of his was precise and certain. And as for the rest of him...The room was dark, and I couldn’t see his naked body; I was more focused on his face and hands. All I remember about him is feeling his bare manhood against my belly when he was straddling me, the warmth of his weight, the tips of his hair tickling my chest, the slight burning of his stubble against my cheek and collarbones, and the smoothness of his thighs pressed on my sides. For some reason, I’m comfortable with openly thinking back on it now. And I begin to wonder...How did _I_ do that night? He said he enjoyed it, but he could’ve just been talking about the result, and not the main thing itself. He called me passionate. Did he get that sense? Were there things I could’ve done better? Was I actually terrible, and he was just being nice? God, I’m so stoned and over-analyzing this. Why am I not freaking out about it as I would’ve done a week ago? 

  
  


“Have you got something to say to me?” David rips me out of my daydream. 

“Huh?” 

“You’ve been staring at me. Need to get something off your chest?” 

“You tell me.” _Christ, what a stupid answer._

  
  


He chuckles, puffing on the joint then passing it to me. 

  
  


“Really?” he asks me, exhaling smoke. 

“Really what?” 

“You really want me to tell you what’s on my mind?” 

_If it’ll take the attention off my awkwardness..._ “Yes.” 

“Okay.” 

  
  


He chuckles again, but there is a hint of self-consciousness in it. 

  
  


“...If I’m going to be completely honest, I don’t expect you to hate me less after I tell you, so I won’t get my hopes up. But listen...I think we can both agree that things between us haven’t been so smooth since that night. I know you said you regret it, and I respect that, don’t get me wrong, but...I sort of wish things were normal between us. You’re so shut down when you’re alone with me, and I can’t help but feel resentment radiating from you. Like, you _refuse_ to speak to me.” 

_He thinks I hate him?_ “...Is that all?’ 

“No...Look, I wish things weren’t so awkward. I wish we could have a good time like before. Maybe in your eyes, what we did was wrong, but in my eyes, I don’t find it a big deal. I just don’t want you to think differently about me, or to hold it against me...Do you get it?” 

“...I’m an adult, Dave, I understand a lot of things.” 

He groans in clear exasperation. “Can you drop the act of machismo? Be real with me. It’s only me out here. You don’t have to be this way if there’s nobody else here. I know you intimately, Roger. I’ve seen you naked for fuck’s sake. I’ve been right there with you while in the throes of orgasm. Be real with me. I want to know what you’re thinking. I want to know what you’ve been keeping to yourself ever since that night.” 

  
  


I don’t look at him. He wants to know what I’m thinking? Why? I don’t want to tell him anything. My thoughts are for me only. I don’t want to share them. Maybe if I stare long enough at those tall buildings far away, he’ll grow uninterested and leave. 

  
  


“...I don’t know,” I mumble. 

“What does that mean? Don’t you trust me?” 

“You’re my mate. We had sex. I’m man enough to acknowledge it. But...I’m not sure I want to tell you my thoughts on that night. Plus, I have a feeling you already know what I think of it.” 

“Fine. We’ll stay here until you do speak.” 

“I don’t have to do anything. I could go inside whenever I want to.”

“If you do, don’t expect our friendship to continue.” 

  
  


_That’s not fair. I like us as friends. Doesn’t he know that?_

  
  


“It’s not so hard, you know. _I_ opened up to you. Can’t you do the same?” 

“We’re two very different individuals. You have your own ways of going about things, and I have mine.” 

“You’re...You’re so irritating...If I tell you _my_ thoughts on that night, will you consider telling me yours at least? That’s reasonable, isn’t it?” 

“Maybe...Go on.” 

  
  


He sighs as if preparing for a lengthy speech. 

  
  


“I think...despite having been intoxicated...we enjoyed ourselves. Yes, you didn’t expect it, but...you can’t sit there and tell me you didn’t like it. Didn’t you like it? I did. I liked it. I found joy in touching you, and finding out how hard you–”

“Okay, you don’t have to remind me.” 

“Why not? What’s the harm in it? I’d say you enjoyed yourself. You were eager, and like I’ve mentioned, passionate. I’d be lying if I said I didn't find it arousing. You were encouraging, even. I’d also be lying if I said seeing you in that state wasn’t inflaming. You’re an adult, but I don’t think you’ll ever understand how I felt with you that night.” 

“You left me naked in your bed the next morning. A bit inconsiderate, don’t you think?” 

“Would you have preferred to be awoken with caresses, then? Maybe we should’ve ordered room service? Showered together? Would you have preferred that?” 

  
  


I stay silent. 

  
  


“No, I don’t think so,” he says, “Leaving you in bed so you could get dressed in peace and solitude...That was me being considerate.” 

  
  


I don’t say anything again. _Damn you, Dave._

  
  


“Would you believe me if I told you I still think about what we did?” 

  
  


I look over at him in disbelief. And I can’t...describe the expression on his face. Fondness? Expectancy?

  
  


“And that I’m so glad we did it?” he continues, “I don’t want you to think I took advantage of you. The alcohol was just an aid. I was curious, and having alcohol in my system helped.” 

“...Curious about what?” 

“About you, of course. I’m stoned enough to admit that you’re attractive, and I was curious to see how you looked up close and personal...Having you just as eager was lovely.”

  
  


_Such strange words to hear from him._

  
  


“I was quite satisfied with how it turned out,” he says, “Didn’t want to get rejected and feel like a fool...My point is that I enjoyed it. And that there are no regrets on my part.” 

“...I...I’m not sure what to say.” 

“Tell me anything.” 

“The...The truth is, I...guess I enjoyed it, too,” I mumble, but I know very well he heard me, “You were...considerate...and gentle. And rough, when it was needed.” I _feel_ his smirk as I say this, but I don’t ever look at him, “There wasn’t a moment that night when I wanted to push you off. In fact, I wanted you closer than ever. Your skin felt nice...” _I can still remember your breathy moans, the ones that would involuntarily escape from you as you tried to keep quiet._ “Your eyes. I liked that you would glance at me every so often just to make sure I was okay...But...David...we were inebriated. I snapped out of it the next morning. We’re friends. I can’t think of you in any other way than just that. It’s...wrong.” 

He looks away, the long-burnt-out joint in between his fingers, “...I don’t think it’s wrong.”

“That’s the problem. Do you agree with me when I say it can’t happen again? It’s risky and stupid.” 

“‘Stupid’?” 

_He looks offended. Hurt, even._ “Yes. We’re adults, Dave, not horny teenagers who can actually get away with stuff like this. It’s risky. People would know.” 

“If we were fucking? I don’t think so. _We’re adults_ , we can hide things very well, too.” 

“No. There would be attachment, no doubt. Maybe even codependency. We wouldn’t be able to stop smiling for days. Months. People would know, and they would suspect.” 

“I disagree.” 

“Okay, that’s fine. But that’s what I think.” 

  
  


He turns away again. His jaw is clenched, and his eyebrows are furrowed. I wonder what he’s thinking. He looks like he wants to cuss at me or punch me. 

  
  


“Are you all right?” I ask him.

“I am a little pissed at you, but I’ll be okay.” 

“Dave, don’t get me wrong. I think you’re...intriguing, too. But this cannot happen. I don’t see how it’s possible.” 

“Okay,” he says under his breath, I nearly didn’t catch it. “Here.” 

  
  


He passes the joint and lighter to me. 

  
  


“Are you done?” I ask him. 

“Mm-hm. Erm, I...I need to think. Are you okay with being out here by yourself?” he stands. 

_Did I ever give you the sense that I wanted you to leave?_ “Sure.” 

“Okay. I’m going inside. I’m glad we...talked things out. I feel like I still have so much to say, but I need to figure it out first. And when I do, I would like to tell you.” 

“...All right.” 

“Hope you sleep well, Rog.” 

  
  


He opens the sliding glass door to slip back inside. 

  
  


“You, too.”

  
  


I’m left alone by him again. This time, I feel much better about it. It feels as though a nagging weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I, too, am glad he and I talked things out. Despite having been left with more questions, I’m glad I got to hear what he thinks. Some of his thoughts don’t necessarily slip past me so easily, but I have to accept him for who he is. He seemed flustered just now, and a part of me hopes he doesn’t go to sleep like that. I want him to sleep well. I don’t want him to toss and turn and feel this way because of me. I don’t want him to feel that way all throughout the night, into the morning, and all day after that. And another part of me, small and insignificant, secretly hopes he comes out saying “Just kidding!” and instead, finishes this joint with me. I regret what I thought of earlier, how he’s unbearable. I don’t feel that way anymore. In fact, I want to be in his presence, now that he’s already gone. And I know he’s in there, comfortable in bed, but fretting over what we just talked about. I could go and try to give him words of comfort and rub his arm with Nick’s incessant snoring in the background, but I won’t. I shouldn’t even be thinking like that. 

We’re just friends. 

Just friends.


	3. Chapter 3

_7 July 1973_

  
  
  
  
  
  


We have officially been on break for a week now. 

After a few days of catching up on sleep, and taking my mind off the music completely– _For now–_ Nick has invited us Floyd boys, along with Steve, Alan, Peter, and their significant others, to Serpentine Lido in Hyde Park. I have to confess, I was a little happy to hear our drummer’s joyful voice on the telephone, excitedly pitching his idea to me. He told me not to worry one bit about inebriants; he and Lindy would provide for us all. _"O_ _h, and...there will be strictly no children, so don’t worry about little devils running around and boldly pointing out your nose. I’ve told the others the same.”_ He also said to be at the lake by five. The time is currently four fifty-three now. And as my hands lightly maneuver the steering wheel, I can’t help but fleetingly allow Davidto be the source of my musings. It’s most likely that he’ll be there. I haven’t seen his face in a week. Not a single phone call either to keep in contact as I’ve done with Nick and sometimes Rick. I wonder if he’s on his way, too. Or maybe he has already arrived. I wonder what his reaction to seeing me is going to be. Will we even exchange words with one another? Do the whole forced act of cold, painful politeness that I would like to avoid? Will he want to go somewhere afterward to talk? The thought of seeing him makes me uneasy. All I’ve done is neglect the feeling up until now. I almost want to make a U-turn and go back into the safety and coziness of my home, but I can’t do that to Nick. 

I pull into a drab area that forms a small parking lot for the lake. As I turn off the engine, I see familiar cars a little ways away. A smile is automatically gathered on my face. My hands plaster sunglasses before my eyes when I get out of my own vehicle. I walk down a narrow dirt path that leads to the main lake, perambulating past gorgeous greenery, then I see my big family on the far right. I see Nick and Lindy, standing with hands on their hips, and gazing at the blue vastness in front of them. I see Rick, sharing a beach chair with Juliette, chatting with Steve and Linda who are seated on another chair across from them. Our loyal roadies and their respective wives are already in the water. I also see Nick’s four-month old golden retriever, Betsy, lying on the grass. But I don’t see…

  
  


“Hey, you!” I hear Nick greet me, flinging an arm in the air as if I can’t already see him. 

  
  


I immediately smile, putting aside my disconcerting ruminations. I walk up, and greet everybody with a short hug, giving polite kisses to the females. Even Betsy is eagerly wagging her tail at me, licking my now naked feet and greeting me by standing on her hind legs and stretching her arms on my stomach. 

  
  


“Here, we’ve reserved a chair for you.” 

  
  


Nick gestures to a blue, green, and white striped beach chair. 

  
  


“Thanks. Hey, where’s Dave?” I ask without adding concern to my tone. 

“I called him before I called you, and he said he had a few errands to run. He’ll come by in a bit, but he mentioned he had somewhere to be later on as well.” 

“So he won’t be here for long, then?” 

“Guess not. You want a lager?” 

  
  


He hands me a beer from a cooler without waiting for an answer from me. My arms cross over my head as I pull off my shirt, and toss it on the grass next to me. The black swimming shorts I have on now have lasted so long, but they still fit me perfectly, so I haven’t seen the need to go to the shops and purchase another pair. I crack open the bottle of beer, lay back against the chair, and bask in the sunlight. The sun seems to be in the ideal position, as it’s hitting my entire body. I don’t worry though; I know in just an hour or so it’ll go down. For now, I light a cigarette and watch as the others splash each other like idiots. And at some point, as I expected and Betsy can vouch for me, everyone goes into the water. I am left to watch from afar and chuckle quietly when Rick gets splashed in the face by Nick and Lindy and sputters helplessly. Then again, but by nearly everyone. I hear their good-natured commotion and the effervescent screaming of the girls as their man picks them up and drops them into the water. The water...I wonder if it’s cold. Should I get in? I have shorts on, but I didn’t bring a towel. _[Why didn’t I bring a towel?]_ As indecisive as I am, I quickly resolve to opposition. I stub out my cigarette, chug my beer, and instead dedicate my time to picking up Betsy and laying her on my chest, covering my whole torso with a living ball of tender innocence and joy. She seems unbothered, licking my nose and even resting against my neck. _Me and Dog...Bliss._

I’m not aware of how much time goes by–but it must’ve been a while–when only my two bandmates and their wives come out of the water and sit on the chairs beside me. 

  
  
  


“Rog, have you come here just to kidnap my dog?” Nick jests, dripping wet, arm around his lady, and eliciting a little giggle out of her. 

I look over slowly, my sunglasses not allowing him to discern if I’m even looking at him. _I suddenly feel lazy._ “How did you know?” 

  
  


He chuckles softly in return, using his other hand to towel-dry his drenched curls. Rick is a gentleman, and wraps his own towel around himself and Juliette, keeping her dry and safe in the green, terry cotton cocoon. 

  
  


“Why didn’t you get in?” Rick asks me. 

“Didn’t bring a towel.” 

“Your loss. We could’ve had a chicken fight.” 

“Yes, and I would’ve most definitely won.” 

“Says you...Hey, when’s Dave going to get here?” I hear Rick ask out-loud to anybody who’ll answer. 

“He didn’t say,” Nick replies, “He just said _later_. Honestly, he might not even make it. He sounded a little distracted. Not like him at all.” 

  
  


_Not like him at all._

  
  


“Did he say what he was doing?” I blurt, interrupting anything else Rick might’ve wanted to say. 

“No, not really. I told you, just ‘errands’. He was very vague. As I said, I don’t think he’ll make it.” 

“Odd...What time is it?” 

He checks his watch, “Quarter to six.” 

  
  


_Already? What the hell have I been doing?_

  
  


And literally, a minute later, I hear Nick say, “Well, speak of the devil.” 

  
  


I don’t know why, but I feel my heart skip a beat as I look the other direction, Betsy licking my nose any chance she gets, and see a familiar figure approaching. David, wearing nothing but blue-and-white thin-striped overalls, is grinning ear-to-ear and walking through the grass towards us. He’s holding a beige coloured tote bag, his bare footsteps cheerfully bouncing off the grass with admirable grace. He seems sunny and jaunty, not at all like Nick described him. Then, it dawns on me that I’m nearly naked. I sink lower in my chair, and embrace Betsy, using her as clothes or a type of shield. 

  
  


“Look who finally decided to show up,” Nick playfully scolds when David is in range. 

He chuckles, “My apologies. It’s been a weird day. Rick, good evening. Girls.” 

  
  


He smiles brightly and nods his greeting at them, and then turns his attention to me. 

  
  


“I see Betsy is very fond of Roger.” 

“I’ll say,” Nick says in agreement, “I’ll wager by the end of the day, she won’t even know who I am.” 

“I believe that.” 

  
  


He knows I’m looking directly at him, despite the sunglasses, and smiles his prominent smile at me. But it’s different. It’s a different smile than the one he used for the others. It’s very particular, like he reserved this smile just for me. 

  
  


“What’s in the bag?” Nick proceeds to ask. 

“It’s, er...I brought wine. Among other things–But!...” he says after he sees Nick trying to make a grab for it, and brings it out of reach from him, “The wine is only for the girls. Here, ladies.” He reaches inside his bag, and hands a bottle to Juliette, then another to Lindy, “You’ll have to share with the other women though, I hope you don’t mind...And I hope you also don’t mind passing it around, ‘cause I didn’t bring any wine glass.” 

  
  


Obviously, they gush over it and thank him endlessly. And I might’ve even seen Juliette bat eyelashes, but I’m not too sure. 

  
  


“And us? What did you bring for _us_?” Nick feigns hurt. 

“I’ll show you later. Are the others here?” 

  
  


Nick gestures to the other company we have, and David leaves his bag beside me, going over to catch their attention and greet. Then, my heart does that thing again when it stupidly forgets a beat and skips it when I hear that the girls want to go to a small and nearby ice-cream parlour. Their men agree. Eventually, this had to happen. Eventually, I was going to be left alone with him. It had to happen, because why wouldn’t it happen? Nick tells me that they’ll be right back, and to not let Betsy out of my sight. He also tells me to mention to David that he’s welcome to help himself to the cooler. I nod in response, maybe a little too vigorously. And the moment they leave, David comes right on back. 

  
  


“Where are they going?” he asks, taking a seat on the chair beside me. 

“To get ice cream. Oh, and Nick said you could help yourself to the cooler.” 

“Okay.” 

“...What’s in the bag, then?” _Maybe he’ll tell me_ _._

“Oh, you know. Some joints for the gang. A bottle of Jack Daniel’s for whoever would like some. For later. My towel. Sunscreen. Oh, and an orange, but that’s solely for me.” 

“Hm. Hefty.” 

“Very.” 

“Planning to drunk drive?”

“Why? Are you worried?” 

  
  


He stands as he says this, seeming to be looking for something on the grass. 

  
  


“What’re you looking for?” 

“Betsy’s leash.” 

“What for?” 

  
  


He manages to find it near Lindy’s things, untangling it and attaching it to Betsy’s collar. When I realise what he’s about to do, my heart does The Thing again. _Stupid heart._ He takes her off my chest, exposing me, and ties the leash around and around and under a leg of my chair. She has no choice but to lie on the grass between us. 

  
  


“There. Much better,” he murmurs. 

  
  


I can actually feel my face going red as he gawks. If it weren’t for the sunglasses, I’d look absolutely dumb staring at the grass out of how diffident I am around him now.

“Do you want some sunscreen?” he asks, and God, I fucking hate him for it. 

“No, thank you.” 

“Are you sure? You’ll get very tan.” 

“I don’t mind, actually.” 

“Okay...Have you gotten in the water yet?” 

“No. I didn’t bring a towel.” 

“You could use mine.” 

“No, thanks.” 

  
  


He chuckles, reclining back on the chair and looking out at the lake. I look at him out of the corner of my eye. He looks like he wants to say something. Something he probably thinks I wouldn’t approve of. 

  
  


“May I say something?” he says. 

“You’re allowed, yes.” 

“It’s been about a week since we’ve spoken about...you know. I’ve been thinking a lot. Too much. And I think I’m ready to tell you about it. So...if you’re up for it...and, please, don’t feel pressured...I would like to see you tomorrow.” 

“...Excuse me?” 

“I’d like to discuss some things with you. How about over tea? The caff of your choice. It’ll be on me.”

  
  


He’s looking at me now, and Christ, I _do_ feel pressured. 

  
  


“I thought, maybe...somewhere public might be better,” he continues. 

“...What will we discuss?” 

  
  


He sits back up, facing me. 

  
  


“I’d like to tell you tomorrow...at a caff...where we will most certainly go to, right? If you just tell me which one…” 

“Fine...How about the one in Notting Hill? You know what I’m talking about? Where Rick spilled his tea all over his lap?” 

“Erm...yes, but Roger...I live in Essex.” 

  
  


_Why whenever he says my full first name, I think back on that night? The way the last ‘r’ sensually rolled off his tongue when he moaned it so softly?_

  
  


“ _You_ said of my choice. That is my choice.” 

“Okay, okay. Oh, and Rog?” 

“Hm?” 

“Will you be so kind as to wear _those_ shorts when I pick you up?” 

The sunglasses cover my glaring stare, but hopefully, my furrowed eyebrows get the point across to him, “...Don’t you dare.” 

He smiles innocently, “Joking, joking.” 

“Pervert...When will you pick me up?” I ask him, my scowl still not fully vanished. 

“How does three sound?” 

“That’s fine.” 

  
  


I sit up, pushing my sunglasses upward to rest on top of my head. My long arms wrap around my knees. He’s staring again. 

  
  
  


“What?” I challenge in annoyance. 

“Are you _sure_ you don’t want any sunscreen?...I can assist with rubbing it over your–” 

_The nerve. The absolute nerve._ “Do me a favor, Dave?” 

“Yes?” 

“Fuck off.” 

He sighs in defeat. “All right. I tried.” 

  
  


He stands again. What he does next makes my pulse quicken. 

There’s an unmistakably impish look in his cornflower blue, fervent orbs as he unclips the buckles at the end of his overall straps, letting them drop and pool around his feet in the blink of an eye. Crimson red shorts and bare chest and soft belly and fit legs are instantly revealed. My mouth inadvertently parts. A powerful attraction to his body overwhelms me, and a hasty thought of “Why hadn’t I noticed him before?” crosses my mind. I had seen him shirtless when we performed solely for cameras in Pompeii two years ago, but this feeling of wanting to gravitate towards him like a mesmerised magnet was not present. Why now? It’s almost like an ache. An ache so profound and raw that I almost want to...puke? But I manage to keep my lunch– _Technically, it was breakfast. At twelve in the afternoon–_ settled in my stomach as he sits back down and begins applying sunscreen to his perfectly sculpted, brawny, velvety body, and–what I assume–the sensitive parts of his face. He glances at me while doing his fleshy thighs, and the corners of his lips curve into a small, almost shy smile. Then it registers in my spellbound brain that I shouldn’t unconsciously give him any ideas, so I turn away, even though the extraocular muscles in my eyes urge me to look back and drool some more. 

  
  


“Join me,” he insists softly and stands once more. 

“Where?” 

“Into the water, of course. Come on.” 

“No. But thanks for asking.” 

He rolls his eyes, but there’s still subtle mirth contorting his features. “Come on, Rog.” 

  
  


He grabs my wrist and attempts to pull me out of my seat, but I use my own body weight to pin myself back down. 

  
  


“No, no, no. No towel, remember?” I remind him. 

“Towel or no bloody towel, who cares? Much needed fun is just a few feet away. Stop being a stubborn grouch, and come with me.” 

  
  


He pulls me again, but I don’t budge. 

  
  


“No, I don’t want to,” I snap, but not too loudly. 

“Are you really going to sit here on your arse the whole time? Just come, Roger. Fucking let go of your pride, and have fun with us.” 

“Or what?” I blurt, not really thinking of the many possible things _I_ very much know he’s capable of. 

“Or...I will be forced to carry you.” 

“You won’t. Not in front of _them_ ,” I nod at the others in the water, “That’ll be too weird and you know it.” 

“Want to try me?”

  
  


We lock eyes. His stare is playfully threatening, while mine is provocative and wanting to test his abilities in an unvoiced challenge. 

  
  


“...I want to be left in peace,” I offer gently instead. 

“...Fine, then. While you sit here being sulky, _I_ will be having fun with my friends. Ta-ta.” 

  
  


_‘Ta-ta’. How striking._ He walks away, and my eyes, they have a mind of their own. Those red shorts, they’re shorter and tighter than my own, and my mind goes bonkers for a second as I drool again. _[I can’t help it.]_ I can see the curvy double bulges of his cheeks underneath, moving with his every step. The Red Shorts, I will forever keep the memory of them safe in a small, little corner in my brain, crammed all the way to the back. They complement him nicely. Accentuate his curves nicely. But he quickly disappears, appearing only as a distinct, very-milky-coffee-coloured figure in the mass of water containing our mates. I am left alone by him for the third time. 

  
  
  


.. .. ..

  
  
  


The time is seven fifteen when we all gather in an asymmetrical circle on the grass. The sun has gone down, resting and idling just slightly below the horizon, its blaze from earlier now waning. There are even goosebumps appearing on my bare flesh every so often because of the breeze. The gentle wind is tousling some of the strands of hair on everyone’s head, as we all engage in trivial, yet entertaining conversation. Some of our talking points revolve around senseless ridiculousness or unfortunate events that we eventually found sort of humorous later on. Like when– _Somehow, this topic bubbled up to the surface–_ one of our crew members, during The Man and The Journey Tour nearly four years ago, decided to dress up in a gorilla costume and roam about the audience. The majority of us still don’t know why he did it, or what he thought he would gain from it. We certainly didn’t ask him beforehand to do it. _“Did he perhaps take something backstage?”_ Or when David accidentally shocked himself that same tour by fiddling around with some amplifier wires without premeditated caution. _“Remember what he said? ‘I’ve got it, I’ve got it, I’ll fix it.’ You continued to twitch throughout the gig, didn’t you, Dave?” Peter teased, followed by blushing from the mentioned man._ As we reminisce about our past tours and early days, we indulge in the joints David had so kindly rolled for all of us. We pass them around the circle, along with the bottle of whiskey he brought as well. _Ever so prepared._ The girls are in their own little bubble, sharing only one bottle of the fermented, piquant, blood red liquid David brought for them that I recognized as Merlot. I faintly hear them talk about going to the shops together next week, but my aimless overhearing is spontaneously interrupted when David passes the whiskey to me for the tenth time. I shake my head. 

  
  


He frowns, “Hm? Why not?” he passes it to Alan instead. 

“I’m already a little off my head, and I’ve got to drive.” 

“You don’t live very far.” 

“Just so you know,” I say, feeling the effects of the whiskey throughout my body when I sprawl my legs out in front of me, “I’m a very cautious driver. I’ve never gotten into an accident, and I don’t ever plan to.”

“...Roger, are you tiddly? Are you...Will you be okay to drive?” he leans over to be discreet about his concern. 

“...I had an early meal.” 

“Makes sense. Will you be okay to drive?” he asks again. 

I wave my hand, as if to dismiss his subtle solicitude, “I’ll be fine. I’m done drinking anyway.” 

“Good idea...Hey...Want to know how I know when you’re squiffed?” 

  
  


I look over, my vision evincing exiguous bleariness, and find a half-solemn look on his face. 

  
  


“You get a lazy eye, which is hilarious, and you constantly feel the need to explain yourself, which is also pretty amusing. But be honest with me, are you _sure_ you’re okay to drive? Because I’m looking at you now, and...Lazy Eye is present and prominent.” 

I repress an uncharacteristic giggle that I _know_ he’d save for future teasing when I revert to my normal state of mind, “Then _don’t_ look at me. I’m fine.” 

“You could go for a swim. Maybe that’ll sober you up.”

_A swim? Why does that sound fantastic?_ “No.” 

“No, it _wouldn’t_ sober you up?” 

  
  


The impish look from earlier is back on his face, and I urge back the smile that wants to break out. 

  
  


“No, I don't want to go for a swim.” 

“Mm...You’re very fun,” he dryly says, turning his attention back to the ongoing conversations around him. 

  
  


Without purpose, I glance down and give my attention to his hands. His thick fingers are interlaced, and his index fingers are softly rubbing against one another. Not from anxiety, but maybe out of unmindful fidgeting. The act of fidgeting, I’m certain almost everyone does it, but somehow I find it very special about him because it’s what makes him so tangible to me. His entirety, his being the only one of his kind, it’s precious and appealing to me. _And possibly dangerous._

  
  


“What happened to you earlier?” I say, but softly so it’s only for his ears.

He looks at me, “Earlier?” 

“On the phone. When Nick called you. He said you sounded distracted. What happened?” 

He sighs as he answers, with a hint of reluctance to explain, “Oh, just...Stuff. My car broke down today. That cute, little Beetle back there in the parking lot? It’s a friend’s.” Another sigh. “And then...earlier, I found out that the family dog had gone to doggie heaven. Thirteen years the little pooch had walked the earth, can you believe that? Found him in a park, and he turned out to be the best companion. And right after that...I stubbed my toe twice. I didn’t have milk for my usual morning tea. I lost my favourite plectrum, the one I found in our dressing room for the Atlanta gig in March, remember? Just...stuff like that. Today’s just one of those days, I guess.”

  
  


I want to whack myself over the head for having asked such a question. He’s clearly here to have a good time and forget about today's abnormal bad luck.

But then he smiles.

  
  


“But...it’s okay. Tomorrow’s a new day.”

  
  


And there it is. His amazing ability to stay positive about the shittiest of times in just a few, small words. How can I not be envious of that? 

  
  


“Yes, I’m sure...things will look up,” I say because I don’t know what else _to_ say. 

“Me, too.” 

  
  


He beams at me, holding intent eye contact until he asks Nick for the time. He curses under his breath when he gets informed, and stands. 

  
  


“Hey, no, no. Where are _you_ running off to?” Steve scolds, using his stern manager tone on him. 

“I’ve got somewhere to be.” 

“Date?” Nick butts in. 

“No,” he blurts, “You’re going to hate me...It’s a party I’ve got to attend.” 

“And _we_ weren’t invited?” 

  
  


At the sound of Nick’s wounded retaliation, everybody else joins and begins berating him for not being invited to this mysterious party. All David could do is shake his head and laugh at our folly and our uniting against him. 

  
  


“Listen, I’d take all of you if I could, but that’s rather rude to bring uninvited guests without warning,” he politely says as he clips the overall straps back over his shoulders. 

“Depends. Who’s the host?” Peter asks, pulling on a joint. 

“You don’t know him. He’s a childhood friend. His name’s Rick.” 

“Well...If you must depart, then so be it. Drive safely,” Steve announces. 

“Thanks.” 

  
  


Nobody stands to give him their best wishes, as he goes around the circle like Duck-Duck-Goose, giving everyone a farewell hug along with courteous hopes to gather together like this again. He shrugs on his now half-empty tote bag when he gets to me. When he embraces me, it’s brief and light. Pleasant and insufficient. His hair brushes against my cheek and his one arm around me pats my naked back. But it lingers for a second, almost caressing me when he whispers engrossing words into my ear. 

  
  


“Please, get home safely. I’ll call you.” 

  
  


No words are able to escape from my mouth; I don’t really know what to say to him. I want to give him an answer. Something like “Later?” or even just an “Okay.” But my brain struggles and all I manage is a nod. 

  
  


He begins to leave, looking back and giving one last wave to all of us. His sightly figure gets farther and farther away, getting smaller and smaller. Then I realise how much I actually enjoyed today and his presence, and I wouldn’t have minded him staying longer and maybe even going for a walk around the lovely area with him. If only he’d asked. If only I had the courage. 

But tomorrow is a new day. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should've mentioned this right at the beginning...In this work of mine, Roger is not married to Judith anymore. In fact, he does not have ANY significant other due to the fact that it might complicate things a little bit, so I've left her completely out. But there will still be vague references to a past marriage to her from time to time. Also in real life, David already had a relationship with a certain Ginger Gilmour around this time, but in this case, it is completely nonexistent.

The maddening shrill of the telephone in my hallway startles me, resounding endlessly through the walls and into my ears, causing me to nearly overspill Vera’s silver bowl with cat food that penetrates my nostrils every time I serve it. She gazes up at me with her green, glowing orbs after my abrupt movement, as if communicating to me her mild concern with an intrinsically blank stare. 

  
  


“Don’t you worry, kitty,” I murmur as I store away the salubrious nourishment inside a cabinet that is solely dedicated to her, “Papa Rog is just fine.” 

  
  


I hear the cat chow crunching and clacking under her petite, yet keen teeth when I walk down the hall to assist whoever is trying to contact me. I grasp the receiver out of its cradle, and hold it up to my exasperated ear. 

  
  


“Yes?” is the unenthusiastic, sloshed answer that erupts, displaying no regard for the rules of etiquette. _Sorry, Caller._

_“Is that how you acknowledge every call?”_

  
  


For an unknown reason, I adjust my slouched posture in some absurd attempt to seem less irreverent to my silky-voiced caller, even though he isn’t in my company to witness. 

  
  


My heart leaps up into my throat when I answer, but I try my best to give him the impression that I’m completely collected, “Oh. Dave. My apologies.” 

_“Did it slip your mind? I said I’d call you.”_

“Shit, erm…” I rub my forehead in furtive embarrassment, “Sorry. I just got home.” 

_“Mm_ , _”_ he coos softly, _“It’s pretty late. I’ve tried ringing you a few times, but…”_

_A few times?...My flattery cannot be contained._ “Again, I apologise, erm...The gang and I indulged in wallop at The Swan after departing the lake. I just got home,” I repeat. 

_“Hm. It’s all right. So you were able to prolong your record of not dying tragically in a car accident...I’m impressed.”_

I smile now, “So am I.” 

  
  


There is an indubitable tone of playfulness in his voice, but when I think twice about it, my gut tells me that there is something else residing within it. I’d rather not surmise that it’s me who is pulling at the reins of his ruminations, but it nearly sounds to me that the quality of his tone is...flirtatious. _What is he thinking?_

  
  


I steer the conversation another direction after my slow realization, “And the party? How was it?” 

_“Oh, I regret going. Seriously, I should’ve stayed with you guys. I would’ve had lots more fun. I got home a while ago, and I’ll be damned if I’m not relieved. It was exhausting having to pretend I was having a good time.”_

“Good ol’ Dave,” I say with a snicker, “Did you know anybody else other than your mate?” 

_“God, no. I don’t know why he invited me, the bastard. Next time I see him, I’m going to act like I don’t know him.”_

  
  


Our husky sniggers combine, his throaty giggle ringing pleasantly in my ear. 

  
  


_“And you? What are you doing now?”_

“Erm…Already fed the cat. And, erm...I reek of cigarettes and cheap beer, so I’m probably going to shower. But as of right now, I’m standing in my hallway like an idiot.” 

_“The image of that is very vivid.”_

  
  


I feel something fuzzy brushing past my ankle, and I glance downward to find my beloved nuzzling against my shins, gently purring with content. 

  
  


“Vera says hello,” I blurt impetuously. 

_“Does she now? Tell her I say the same–”_

“Oops. She’s moseyed off. I don’t think she likes you very much.” 

_“...Exactly, how pickled are you?”_

“On a scale of one to ten?...Seven...and a half.” 

_“Are you sure you drove yourself home? I find that amazing...You’re okay, though, right?”_

“Of course.” 

  
  


Words cannot describe how precious his abundance of concern for me is, despite not having any intent to elicit such simple words from him. 

  
  


_“Well, then...Sounds to me like you’re in somewhat good spirits...Enough to want to talk about tomorrow...?”_

I sigh into the receiver, “...What else needs to be said? We already arranged the time and place.” 

_“Yes, but...I just wanted to make sure you were still willing.”_

“I already told you.” 

_“All right, all right. My car’s still in the shop, but it should be ready before three tomorrow.”_

“You mean you made plans with me, but you’re not even fully certain you’ll be able to provide transportation?” 

_“...Perhaps. But look, if it isn’t ready, I’ll just borrow the Beetle again.”_

“And it won’t be a bother for the owner? What if _he’s_ got something to do tomorrow? What’ll we do then?” 

_“Don’t worry about it. And if he does, then I’ll take the tube ‘round to yours. Problem solved.”_

“You said you wanted to go somewhere public‒”

_“Roger, Roger, Roger,”_ he hastily says, _“If it comes down to no Beetle, your home it is. But for now, let’s, you know, assume my car will be ready tomorrow.”_

“Fine. Then let me know if it just so happens to be otherwise.” 

_“I will...Hey, here’s another idea: You have a car. You could very well just take us to Notting Hill.”_

“Mm...No.” 

_“‘No’? That’s...That’s absurd. Why not?”_

“I simply don’t feel like it...Unless you give me dough for gas.” 

_“...I don’t think so. And that’s not a good enough reason. If you don’t cooperate, then I’ll have no problem intruding into your cozy home to mooch your tea.”_

_Unacceptable. I quite like the idea of him picking me up._ “Whatever happened to ‘somewhere public’?” 

_“Yeah, but…”_

“Yeah, but nothing. We already settled on an overt rendezvous.” 

I _know_ he’s smirking now. _“Ever so insistent, Rog. Sloshed, and still sharp. Sounds like you don’t want us to be alone together. Am I correct in presuming such a thing?”_

“...You’re ruining this call, Dave.” 

_“My bad...I don’t mean to. Curiosity gets the best of me...What’re you thinking?”_

“What?” 

_“I mean, what's going through your mind?”_

“Why the sudden inquiry?” 

_“I told you, I’m just curious.”_

“How cute. I should let you know, I don’t really feel like answering your question.” 

_“Well, I’m just trying to have a conversation here. Enlighten me, Roger.”_

“No.” 

_“Okay, that’s fine...Going to go out on a limb here and assume...you’re thinking how much you’d like to avoid being alone with me. Though, I’m not sure why. Deep down, I know you enjoy being friends, so why the fear of solitude with me?”_

“I am _not_ afraid.” _The idea’s dreadful, actually._ “Want my honesty? It’s just not a good idea. And you already know why, so please don’t pry.” 

A complaining groan is emitted, _“I like you better when you’re a goofy drunk...And I don’t think I’m asking for too much. I just want to be close friends.”_

_Exactly, how close?_ “Listen, Gilmour, can’t we leave this all for tomorrow? Discussing where we stand with one another?” 

_“You call me that when you’re cross with me.”_

“Well, now I am. Did you call just to pressure me?” 

He sighs. _“Yes, Roger. I like to call you just to get you worked up.”_

_Now is not the right time for sarcasm, Dave. You should know that._ “Listen, listen, listen,” I mock his earlier tone, “Do you really want us to be on bad terms the day before we meet?” 

_“...No.”_

“I don’t either. So let’s keep it cordial, yes?” 

  
  


I know he’s a little upset now, because he doesn’t respond right away. I can hear his sigh of smothered vexation, and his soft breathing that amazingly sounds like it’s coming from right next to me, if he were standing at such a close proximity. 

  
  


“Are you still there?” 

_“Mm-hm.”_

  
  


_Uh-oh._

  
  


“Do you want to hang up?” 

  
  


He doesn't answer, and it immediately worries me. We stay on the line, seconds of tension-filled silence passing by. I wonder what he’s doing now. Twirling his hair the way I’ve seen him do plenty of times? Watching the telly? Or maybe he’s standing in his own hallway like an idiot, too. Feeling as awkward as I do. 

  
  


“Okay, I don’t know what I did to cause you to suddenly turn silent like this, but I apologise. Okay? Dave?...David?” 

  
  


A couple of more seconds of utter silence on the line go by, before a loud rustle rings in my ear. As if he harshly picked up the telephone from a surface. 

  
  


_“Sorry, I was changing my clothes. Were you saying something?”_

  
  


I want to whack myself over the head. 

  
  


“Oh...No. No, I wasn’t.” 

_“All right, well...I do want us to be cordial to each other, Roger. Even if I still get inklings that you refuse to get close to me, I’ll try my best to keep it warm between us.”_

“I’m not–” _No purpose in doing that._ I sigh in defeat, “Okay, Dave. I’ll see you tomorrow. In the correct setting. At three.” 

_“‘Till then, Rog. If anything goes wrong with my car and the Beetle’s unavailable, I’ll let you know beforehand...And to be quite frank, I’m happy we’re doing this. I think it’ll be a big help. Anyway, goodnight, Roger. I really do hope you sleep well.”_

“I think so, too, Dave. And I hope that...we can remain friends afterwards. Goodnight.” 

  
  


I gently place the receiver back in its cradle. I’m still replaying our entire conversation, overanalysing everything and picking out little bits of the things he said that stand out in my brain like a big, fat stamp. I confess that he’s absolutely right in me being disinclined to spend time with him alone. There are still unsaid sayings between us, and I’m afraid one of us– _Not me–_ will do something dimwitted, and make them actions instead. But I am glad we will be getting together tomorrow. Though I can’t stop thinking of those tragic, yet amusing moments in films when a character ditches the person they’re with through the bathroom window of a restaurant after hearing something from that person that pushes the “Red Flag Detected” button in their brain. _“Abort mission, abort mission…”_ I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to think of anything to say if David blurted something that caused alarm. Something I wouldn’t know how to handle. If he were to, say, tell me that there’s a little, special place in his heart that is reserved solely for me, I’d guiltily consider the escaping-through-window tactic as recourse. But I know, deep down, that I wouldn’t stoop that low...Would I?

  
  
  
  


.. .. ..

  
  
  
  


The black ‘70 Ford Mustang 302 is unmistakably familiar when I emit from my home, hastily shrugging on a coat and rolling my eyes at his aimless honking even after seeing me exit my home and approach the car. He unlocks the passenger door for me when I reach the sidewalk he’s idling next to, and _Send Me No Flowers_ immediately envelops me and pulsates throughout the entire interior of the vehicle, his soft smile greeting my arrival while he lowers the volume of saccharine sounds. _Doris Day? How incredibly interesting and mushy of him...Is this tune intentional though?_

  
  


“Good afternoon,” he says, steering away from the sidewalk as I fasten my seat belt. 

“Hi,” I curtly murmur. “No Beetle, eh?” 

“Thankfully. This baby was ready three hours ago.” 

“What was it exactly?” 

“I’m not entirely sure. Something about the battery, I think. Or starter motor? Maybe not. I don’t know, I wasn’t really listening to what the guy was saying.” 

“Of course you weren’t.” 

  
  


He simply chuckles, tucking a lock of honey brown hair behind his ear. 

  
  


“On a different note, I hope you’re prepared to give _me_ dough for gas...Making me drive all the way here,” he playfully grumbles. 

“Ha,” I retaliate in monotone, “Is that what you think?” 

“Oh, you bet. Since _you_ mentioned it when I suggested we take your car, I feel I have the right to do the same now.” 

“...Dave, _you_ made the offer to pick me up... _And_ you said this would be on you. That’s what you said.” 

  
  


He pouts, evidently defeated. 

  
  


“...I suppose,” he mumbles, “We can even this out...if you invite me for a drink after tea.” 

“Even what out exactly? This was _your_ idea. And I think a drink is a terrible idea.” 

“Okay, then. Allow me: would you like to go for a drink after tea?” 

_That would be dangerous. It was the alcohol in the first place that encouraged us to do unspeakable things that night._ “No, thanks. You can, though.” 

“All right. We’ll see how you feel after tea, then.” 

  
  


_He doesn’t seem to understand._ I subtly shake my head at his deliberate lack of common sense, looking out the more-than-pristine window. Diverse homes zoom past us as he and I stay silent for a while, letting the soft music fill the absence of verbal contact. As he taps his fingers against the steering wheel in-time with the music, I catch a glimpse of a lovely garden overflowing with miscellaneous plants, and I briefly recall the days when my own front yard looked like that. I have no interest in gardening, but Judith did. She would tenuously insist every other day for fertiliser or specific seeds, until I would eventually give in and voluntarily spoil her with more than just the things she asked for. At the time, to protect and provide for her was my world. But some things are temporary or not meant to be, and your world can come crashing down sometimes, leaving you confused and morose for, what seems like, an eternity. My naked left ring finger is proof of that. 

  
  


“I apologise if I was acting foolishly last night. When I rang you. I _was_ pressuring you, and I’m sorry,” he abruptly blurts, in a faintly shy tone that cancels out his suddenness. 

“It’s fine,” I distractedly reply, “It’s past us. Not important anymore.” 

“Good...Hey,” he takes a double glance at me before turning his attention back to the road, “You’re a little pale. Are you all right? Do you need to puke or something?” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Are you sure? I can pull over for a moment.” 

“I don’t need to vomit. I’m fine.” 

“All right...”

  
  


We spend the next minutes of the car ride in virtual silence. Not the uncomfortable kind that makes the atmosphere feel almost unbearable, but the comforting kind in which you can freely indulge in inconsequential reveries and simply enjoy your company’s presence. 

I lower my window, letting the rapid breeze aggressively tousle my hair, but I don’t mind. While sounds of the outside world mingle with the gentle purr of the engine, I can hear David alternating between radio stations. He stays on a particular station to listen for a few seconds, evaluating it to confirm if it matches his taste, but before it’s even given a full chance at being thoroughly experienced, he’s already on another station. I lightheartedly chide, and tell him that it doesn’t matter what we listen to, that anything is fine. He absorbs my acceptance, and leaves the radio alone. 

As we get closer and closer to buzzy streets and crammed shops, I take a quick second to drink in the sight of my chauffeur who is thankfully oblivious of my secret admiration. This is one of the few times I’ve ever seen him this solemn, having always been around him while he’s jolly and silly. The vague furrow of concentration in between his eyebrows is easily conspicuous because of the interesting indentation he was already born with, and I fleetingly wonder if he’s even aware he’s making this expression. His hands steer with such fluidity as a left turn is made. His rosy, generous lips are pressed together, accentuating the cleft in his chin that is just a _portion_ of boundless aspects that are beginning to make him fetching to me. He makes a sound of dissatisfaction, and his stubborn hand wanders again, finding the knob to change stations once more. I stare openly now, and he catches me, smiling slightly at my playful disapproval. 

  
  


“I need the perfect driving tune,” he defends.

“Is there a soundtrack to every moment of your life, Dave?” _Of course there is. It’s David; the man constantly hums everywhere he goes. He’s practically made of guitar solos and melodic phrases._

He lets out a sound of amusement, “I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t.” 

“Sort of a rhetorical inquiry, but…” 

  
  


The infamous caff begins coming into view. The seats of the outside patio are deserted, I observe, which confirms my suspicion that the place might not be full of much activity, much to my relief. We come closer, and David immediately claims the empty space of parking beside the very sidewalk in front of the little business. The car engine comes to a halt, and the unsuitable music from the radio ceases completely. He removes his keys from the ignition, and I wait for him to gather his worldly goods before emerging from his sleek vehicle. I hold open the entrance door when we walk up together. He murmurs his gratitude over my being a gentleman, and ambles inside. 

  
  


“Shall we sit outside instead?” he asks quietly while we’re already looking for the perfect table. 

“No. Right here’s fine.”

  
  


I nod in the direction of a small, leathered booth right beside a tall window. He makes no further suggestions, and takes a seat on one side of the booth while I follow suit on the other side. His eyes aimlessly gaze at the outside world separated by a thick layer of glass while he shrugs off his coat, and places it beside himself in a neat heap. I’m well aware that I cannot indulge in cigarettes here, but the immediate perpetual need to have something tangible in my hands grows ever more profound, so I resolve to fiddling with a white sugar packet, folding and unfolding one corner, trying my best to keep up the pretense that I’m not dreading the impending discussion. But what makes me feel slightly better are his own hands that seem to be fidgeting, too. Eventually, the knowing silence is broken by a pretty waitress who greets us with her enthusiastically genial voice. 

  
  


“Good afternoon, gentlemen. What can I get for you?” 

  
  


She does seem sweet, but the immediate, fierce blush that surfaces to her dewy cheeks after catching sight of David does not fail to quickly irk me. The formal term for addressing _both_ of us was very clear in her greeting, but she only seems to have eyes for the man seated across me. She’s almost ogling, attempting to be furtive, but it’s incredibly apparent to me. David usually has this powerful effect on women, and generally, it’s amusing, but as of right now, it feels as though I’m enduring having to watch this play out before me. But he should know that now is not the time to exert his charms on this young lady. 

  
  


“Hi,” he politely replies, “Two cuppas, please?” 

“Absolutely. Tea bag preference?” 

“A jasmine, and an oolong. And a small plate of scones, thanks...Oh, pardon, but don’t you need to write all this down?” 

  
  


Every word that comes out of his mouth just seems to pull her in even further. As if his words are being declared by a very wise man and she needs to grasp onto every single one of them lest she fails to take heed of his absolute wisdom. 

  
  


“Oh, no, you’re in good hands. I’ve a great memory,” she smiles sweetly, the little dimple in her cheek and twinkle in her eye making an appearance to lure him in. 

He naturally responds to her subtle body language with a little smile of his own, one that can make anyone weak in the knees, “Really? That sounds promising.” 

  
  


_Oh, please. Can we not do this?_

  
  


“The scones, would you like them unsweetened or lightly sweetened?” 

“Lightly sweetened, please.” 

“Of course. I will get that right away.” 

  
  


She gives him another smile, but over the shoulder as she coyly ambles away, and he can’t help but reciprocate. After she’s left our presence, I scoff quite openly. 

  
  


His slight smile is still on his face when he challenges me with a “What?” 

“...Please tell me you’re joking.” 

“About what?” His smile never leaves. 

“About what?” I repeat after him in a mocking tone, “Do I have to state the obvious? You and her. Batting of the eyelashes on both your parts?” 

“That’s ridiculous. She was just...being nice. And I do have manners, after all.” 

“Right…” 

“But...I don’t know...I sort of believe we have another issue here, Roger.” 

“Which is?” 

His blue orbs transparently reflect his inner unity of intrigue and amusement, “...Jealousy can have quite the upper hand, can’t it?” 

“Jealousy? Me, jealous? I have no reason to be.” 

“Mm...If you say so...Apologies to her, truly, but I’m not interested. My being here is far more significant.” 

  
  


I almost want to pry, to press on the matter and make him tell me why he’s here with me, just to hear him say the actual words as opposed to leaving me on a cliffhanger. 

  
  


“...Well, she seemed smitten. It’s a rarity to witness you talk about a bird like that...Feeling all right, Dave?” 

He giggles, reclining with his arms crossed, “Do shut it. There are just other, more important matters to focus on. Like your tea. Did I make the right decision in getting you oolong, or have you abandoned it for another kind?” 

“Still sticking to it, and always will. Actually, I’m fairly certain you’ve met the special cabinet in my kitchen.” 

He moves again, leaning in to prop his elbow and rest his cheek against a broad hand, “Absolutely, I have. It’s a mystery to me how you never seem to run out.” 

“Unabating over-stocking, that’s the way.” _Yes...The cabinet door must not be able to close all the way._

“You loony...I’ll take that into consideration.” 

  
  


The waitress really did mean to keep her word of getting our tea and scones right away, because she’s suddenly walking to our table again. With another small, quiet greeting, she sets down a steel platter containing two steaming cups of tea accompanied by a petite, spouted pot filled with milk, two silver teaspoons, and a small plate of two scones. They’re meant to be sprinkled with powdered sugar, like David ordered, but I notice one of them has a significant amount of _more_ powdered sugar than the other, and I can only guess that it is deliberately not intended for my own tastebuds. I entertain the idea of reaching for it and eating it right under her nose, just to see her reaction, but I quickly let it go. 

  
  


“Thank you,” David says, cupping his hot mug in his hands. 

“It’s no problem. And that one...that one’s for you.” 

  
  


She rotates the plate so the distinct scone is facing him. He and I share a secret, eloquent look, repressing our grins. Her now lack of subtlety is a jumble of heartbreak and amusement, and I know he’s thinking the same thing. 

  
  


“All right. Thank you very much.” 

“You’re welcome, And if you need anything else, just give me a little holler.” 

“We will. Thanks,” I blurt, replacing David’s own reply. 

  
  


She seems to ignore my response and presence altogether, and retreats to the kitchen with the empty platter in hand, giving him another over-the-shoulder smile. 

  
  


“How do you do that?” I ask him, pouring milk into my tea until I’m satisfied with the amount. 

“Do what?”

“Stupefy women with solely your existence. You don’t even try and they blindly gravitate towards you.” _I say this because I’ve just familiarised myself with the act._

“Ask my ma and pa. They’re the masterminds behind my existence.” 

  
  


He takes the milk from me, and repeats my own action. Meanwhile, I pick up three sugar packets and empty them into my hot beverage, stirring all contents together with a teaspoon. I like my tea rather lightly sugared. Unlike him, who pours _six_ packets into his own cup. Him, who also adds too much milk and doesn’t wait for the tea to cool down. 

I get ahead of him, and savour my sweetened-but-not-really scone. I’ll admit, I would have liked for my scone to have a more generous amount of powdered sugar, but I don’t voice it outloud. He doesn’t touch his, but basks in the warmth of his hands caused by the mug. He follows the curve of the rim with the tip of a finger, the steam of the tea dancing between his fingers. 

  
  


“It's a little cold today, no?” he murmurs, bringing the mug to his lips. 

“That’s a bit of an understatement...Why?” 

“No, I was just saying. Would be nice to get a little sun time and again. Like yesterday, when we went to the lake. It was perfect...It just makes me think, this weather.” 

“About…?” 

“Moving somewhere else,” he chuckles, “California, perhaps. Arizona. Imagine that, a full-blown English chap in the sunniest state.” 

I put down my unfinished scone back on the plate between us, dusting my fingers on my long sleeve shirt rather than on a napkin as his words have stirred an unfamiliar unease in me. “Moving? Are you seriously considering?” 

“Well, I’ve only thought about it, really. Just a fleeting thought.” 

“It can’t solely be for the weather, can it? Surely, you must have another reason for...leaving home.” 

“...I suppose the idea of starting new is intriguing. Maybe I’m bored. But it doesn’t mean I’m actually going to do it.” 

“Bored of what? I thought you liked being in a band.” 

“I do. Christ, I love it. But...I just feel like I’m lacking something. I do care about myself, and I’m almost willing to acquaint myself with what I might need.” 

“If you moved...how would we record? How would we even be a band?” _How would we see each other?_

“...Well, I suppose if I moved...you’d need to find another guitarist.” 

_Is he messing with me?_ “...That’s not funny, Dave.” 

He giggles, taking another sip from his tea. “I said it was only a thought. But imagine a different guitar-playing goon in Pink Floyd. You think Steve would approve?” 

I scoff, “You think _I_ would approve?” 

“...I’d like to think so.” 

“No. No, I wouldn’t. Dave, you’ve been with us for more than five years, almost six. In my opinion, it's been a wonderful five years. I’d be very upset if you left. As would Nick and Rick. As would our whole crew. As would every single one of our fans.” 

“Are you guilt-tripping me?” he smiles. 

“Of course, you dolt. You’re very important to us. Your talent is a vital part of the band. It’s always a source of sadness to lose a talent. Plus, we’d miss you.” 

“...Well, if I had known that that’s how you felt, I wouldn’t have said anything.”

“Let’s forget you ever did,” I lightheartedly scold. 

  
  


He giggles once more, and hides his smirk behind his mug. While he takes a moment to satiate himself with more tea, I resume eating my scone. 

  
  


“You know what we should _all_ do though?” he speaks again. “Go on a little vacation. The four of us. We still have, what, two months left of our hiatus? We could very well go somewhere next _week,_ perhaps.” 

“Mm,” I coo, swallowing the last bits of my scone, “That sounds nice.” 

“Doesn’t it? We could visit Maui. Maybe travel to Saint-Tropez again. Athens. Belize. The list goes on and on.” 

“Yes...One thing though. I don’t think Juliette or Lindy would be too keen on being left behind with children while their husbands go off on a jaunt.” 

“...I guess they can come, too.” 

  
  


We share a small laugh, letting our minds swell and swirl with the idea of going somewhere far and foreign to us to lay in the sun, drink expensive wine and eat good food. To not have a single worry about our second busy life, filled with absurd interview questions, tedious photoshoots and exhausting studio sessions. 

  
  


“What about me and you? We could leave the others home, not even mention it to them, and have a good time. Just me and you. We wouldn’t have to worry about children or wives. Of course, you’d have to find a sitter for your kitty, but Rick would be more than happy to do it.” 

  
  


_Is he serious?_ I chuckle nervously, and take an extra long sip from my tea to hide the fact that I would like to avoid anything that has to do with him and I being completely alone.

  
  


“No? You wouldn’t be up for it?” he continues, a small smile playing on his lips. 

I clear my throat to stall a little bit. “...I don’t think so, Dave.” 

  
  


But even after my gentle refusal, I still feel a sense of assurance that my answer didn’t upset him. He knew what I was going to say, and he understands why I would be disinclined to go on vacation with solely him. Yet, he can’t help himself. 

  
  


He smiles again, “Well, it was worth a try.” 

“Sorry...But you should definitely pitch the idea to the others. I think they’d be up for it.” 

“I think so, too.” 

  
  


We both bring our mugs to our lips. And it suddenly hits me that I’ve nearly forgotten what we really came here to do. I was feeling content with just being with him over tea, that it slipped my mind completely that there’s a discussion we need to have that has the possibility of ruining our current cordiality with one another. I think we both unconsciously steered towards the direction of straying away from the purpose of this little get together...out of furtive cowardice. He, who seems so calm, cool, and collected all the time, is just as much of a nervous wreck as I am. Somehow, the idea of that is slightly comforting. That’s how I know he's serious about this, despite the resuming of his fidgety hands. 

  
  


“So…” he begins after sipping his tea, “...All right. All good-natured conversation aside, Roger, we’re here to talk about something serious...Where we stand with one another. So I’ll say it now...No beating around the bush. And before you say anything, this applies to myself, too. I want to be as honest as I can with you, and I hope you possess the same rationality.” 

I nod, “...I’ll try.” 

“Please do. I don’t want this to go bad...Erm...Okay,” he says quickly, as if bracing himself, or trying to encourage himself. “...Yesterday, at the lake, I told you that I had been thinking a lot. About what transpired between us. I told you that I was ready to tell you my final thoughts on it, and I’m hoping that...you treat my conclusion with respect. You are your own person, of course. You’ll always have the right to disagree with me, and if you do, I wish for you to do it pol–” 

“I thought you said no beating around the bush.” 

He smiles slowly, “Right. S-Sorry...Erm…” 

  
  


He takes a moment, gazing down at the porcelain mug in his hands. He’s thinking. And it makes me uneasy, because I know that look on his face. The slight worry, the minuscule reluctance. I know for a fact now that he knows I’m not going to like what he’s going to say. But he’s still going to say it, because his impulsiveness is a fundamental part of his nature, and without it, he would not be David. 

  
  


“...When you pulled me into the alley back in early June to tell me that our night together was a mistake, it pissed me off, to be quite frank. I couldn’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the night. It... _ruined_ my night. You think of that night as it being wrong. A great blow to your ego...or something like that. But I think of it as...as the complete opposite.” 

  
  


I lock eye contact with him, and we maintain it as I very clearly see the utter honesty in his expression, never faltering under my intent scrutiny. He wants me to side with him so badly, I can see it in his eyes. The way he’s nibbling his lower lip and searching my face for an answer. 

  
  


He continues, “...I know I’ve nonchalant about it...But in all honesty, I’m fucking terrified of letting you discover that that’s not the case. That I’m lying to you...and to myself. And I don’t know why I’m doing this, exposing myself. You’re probably wishing I wasn’t. But...you need to know.” 

“...Need to know what?” I finally find my voice. 

“The important things. The things that matter.” 

“...What things that matter?” 

  
  


He leans back, still clutching his drink, but he distractedly looks out the window. I don’t like this, how he’s at a loss for words. 

  
  


“David,” I slightly scold, bringing him back to my world, “Tell me. What things that matter?”

“...You already know,” he whispers. 

“No, I don’t. You’re not telling me.” 

  
  


The look of reluctance is there on his face again, but he knows he’s too far in, and cannot back out. He wouldn’t be too cruel as to leave me wondering and begging. 

  
  


“...In all of my twenty-seven years of existence, this is the most intense thing I’ve ever felt. Fuck all the relationships or flings I’ve been in...This is where I want to be.” 

  
  


I can’t look away now. His words have clutched my attention with all of the force that exists, but they hold me delicately, possessing and caressing me, forcing me to look him straight in the eyes as he tries his best to confess to me. 

  
  


He continues before he loses courage, “...There is absolutely no knowledge in this world that can replace the genuine feeling of belonging somewhere...and someone else belonging to me.” 

  
  


I’m speechless for a moment as I know exactly what he’s saying. 

  
  


“Roger...do you understand? Do you have this feeling, too?” 

I nod slowly, “...Yes...And yes.” 

  
  


He lets out a quiet sigh. I’m positive it’s from relief. I’m glad I don’t have to say the actual words of my reciprocated unbosoming, but that he understands me, too. 

  
  


“...Roger...I don’t want to say that you’ve been oblivious, but...you need to know that I’m tired of only hanging onto this supposed friendship that I’m sure is falling apart. Little by little.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means...I mean I don’t want to do this anymore.” 

  
  


_...Is he saying what I think he’s saying?_

  
  


“...Do what?’ 

He sighs, smiling nervously. “Pretend that we’re nothing to each other. That we’re simply friends. I don’t want to be just friends, I think that’s very clear by now.”

_The balls on him..._ “...You really see us like that?”

  
  


He nods, nibbling his lower lip again. 

  
  


“...Dave, I...I don’t know.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“...I think we’d be better off if...we stay the way we are. I feel like I’ve said this to you before, but I’m almost one hundred percent certain that people would figure it out. We wouldn’t be able to contain ourselves. Like I’ve said before, we’d smile for days. Months...Years, perhaps.” 

“No. You’re wrong.” 

“If that’s what you think.” 

“So, what, your solution is to ignore it? Ignore me forever? Resolve to forgetting about it, in hopes of moving on?...How could you do that?”

I lower my voice to a whisper, “...David...What do you want me to say? People know us. We’re in a band together. We work together. We fucking fight all the time, and you want something more?” 

“Exactly,” he states, “I want more.” 

  
  


_!!!_

  
  


“You just need to tell me that you want the same thing…’Cause I know you do.” 

“Dave, come on–” 

“No, for fuck’s sake. This is why we’re here. To talk about it. Just tell me.” 

  
  


The truth is, I’m terrified, too. I’ve never felt this way either, and I’m too afraid to even explore it or let myself fully succumb. I don’t know how we’ll be able to keep it between us, I don’t know if we’ll last, I don’t know if it’ll blow up in our faces the minute we start. I’m too insecure about myself to be able to commit. I might not be enough for him. I might be too much for him. He might be too much for me, and I’m afraid he’ll realise that too early or too late. And when he does, will he still be there? 

  
  


“...I don’t know what I want. I mean...I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t think I would be good for you. I mean, Christ,” I scoff, “You know things never work out for me. And I’m afraid that if I start feeling like utter shit, I’ll bring you down with me...You don’t need me, Dave. You need things like a roof over your head and food and oxygen, but you don’t need me. I’m not right for you.” 

“Why do you bring yourself down like that? I hate it when you do that. And I’m not a child. I know what I want.”

I sigh, “You don’t get it.” 

“Just because you’re three years older than me doesn’t make me lesser than you. Yes, I’ve never experienced being married, but I do know how relationships work. And I’m sorry if you feel that things never work out for you, but how can you stand by that if you haven’t tried new things?” 

  
  


This time, I don’t have an answer for him because I know he has a point. All of this is happening so quickly, I can’t wrap my head around it. And his staring is certainly not helping. In an act of absolute pusillanimity, my eye contact falters under his own as I stupidly decide to fiddle with the same sugar packet from earlier. He tears his eyes away from me to gaze at the outside again, lips parted. 

  
  


“You don’t...You don’t want to be with me?” 

  
  


I never want to bring any disturbance to his heart. I never want to be the source of his pain. But the raw hurt in his voice kills me. Uttered so softly and sadly that I desperately wish I could travel back in time to a minute ago so as to take those stupid, useless words back. 

  
  


“It’s not that, David. I just don’t know if we’ll be able to manage it.” 

“Who cares? It’s a risk, and I’m willing to take it. Aren’t you?” 

  
  


Speechless again, I shrug. And immediately, there's an abundance of regret on my part. Why do I keep doing this? 

  
  


“...You don’t care, do you?…I’ve just opened up to you, handed you my heart, and what do I get? A shrug.”

  
  


He’s staring me down once more now, and I have lost all courage to look him in the face again. 

  
  


“I might as well have just pulled down my trousers and shit in front of you...Christ, Roger. I try. I try, and you can’t see that?...I feel like a bloody fool.”

  
  


I suddenly find my tea very unappetising, and push it away. And to ruin things even further, the infatuated waitress comes back to our table. But perhaps she saved me, or saved David from possibly exploding. 

  
  


“Everything all right here? You boys need anything?” she kindly asks, never looking at me. She doesn’t seem to sense the tension between us at first, but finally becomes aware of David’s silent wrath when he disregards her harshly. 

  
  


“Yes, here,” he says, pushing our unfinished teas and his uneaten scone towards her, “Take it, we don’t want it. And can you bring the check?” 

  
  


Without a word, only a look of silent disappointment and–there goes that word again– _hurt,_ she picks up all of the glassware, and takes it back to the kitchen. I watch her back as the clack of her heels recede, and I almost feel sorry for her. She did seem lovely, and she probably thought she was going to have a chance. She even went as far as giving his scone more powdered sugar, and now that I think about it, the act of that was sort of cute. She really thought she was going to have a chance with this seraph of a man, who is now furrowing his eyebrows and can’t look me in the face. He thought this was going to go well, and honestly, so did I after seeing us get off to a good start. And now, I’ve crushed him, and it’s so fucking stupid that I’m the one who’s wounded over his avoidance of eye contact when I obviously deserve it. I didn’t mean to push him away. I think I really do want what he wants, but I’m not sure what’s stopping me from going to the next step. Maybe it’s difficult for me to believe him, because he’s so much better than me and would rather waste his time with someone like me. 

  
  


“...You never said anything,” he suddenly blurts, still not looking at me. 

“Hm?” 

  
  


He drags a finger over to me, and nudges my left ring finger. It used to house a beautiful, pure platinum ring that held my unity with Judith. We were supposed to be eternal. We were supposed to complete each other. Two life forces that were meant to be one. It’s not there anymore, but the faint, white tan line was left behind to remind me indefinitely of our sorrowful joys. 

  
  


“When you separated. You showed up to the studio, and acted as if nothing happened. All those years together, thrown away just like that.” 

“I didn’t think anybody cared.” 

He scoffs, “...You’re wrong again...Who left who?”

  
  


The waitress briefly comes back to place the check on the table, and leaves without acknowledging David anymore. 

  
  


I sigh, “...She was the one who filed for a divorce.” 

Knowing very well I did not bring cash at all, he takes out a couple of bills from his wallet to leave underneath the checkbook, which makes me feel even worse. He stands, muttering, “I wonder why.” 

  
  


_Ouch._

  
  


He steps out of the booth, and goes out the entrance door, leaving his coat behind. I stay seated for a moment longer, thinking how hilariously painful it would be if he was the one who ditched me. I look out the window, and see that he starts his car, the engine roaring beautifully, but he stays. No, he wouldn’t leave me. He cares too much. 

I stand, and grab his abandoned coat, resisting the urge of bringing it to my nose to give it a whiff. The little bell above the door chimes when I exit, and I make my way to the passenger door. It’s unlocked, so I gracefully settle myself into the seat, and place his coat on top of the dashboard. I don’t expect him to thank me, but I’m okay with that. He steers out of the parking spot almost the second I close my door, but significantly less cautious compared to the way he was driving before we arrived here. We go back the same way we got here, passing the same houses and colourful cars. He’s almost speeding, making the engine rumble and some faces turn our way. He’s driving with a kind of desperation to get to his destination, as if his life depended on it. But no. In fact, he’s driving this way because I believe he wants me out of his car as soon as possible. The whole vehicle is void of music, and his knuckles are nearing white as he grips the steering wheel. I want to ask him if he’s all right, maybe ask him to stop the car so I could fix things, but I realise that he probably wouldn’t accept my pathetic apologies. 

The car ride is unbearably silent. 

When he stops beside the sidewalk in front of my house, I find I really don’t want to leave his presence. The idea of being alone in my home seems insufferable to me, and being with him sounds so much more appealing. I know that if I leave, I’ll do nothing but be miserable and think of the things I could’ve said to prevent this bitterness between us. Beating myself up about this will not make me a better person. I’d rather be with him while he’s upset with me than not be with him at all. 

  
  


“...Do you truly want me to go?” I pathetically ask him. 

“...Still debating.” 

“It’s fine. I’ll go. I’ve done enough to you today.”

  
  


Because I didn’t care at the time for the seat belt, I exit the car easily. After closing the door, I convince myself that he would at least somewhat appreciate my gratitude over his paying for everything and providing transportation. I go over to his side of the car, leaning down to rest my arms on his door. His hands are still on the steering wheel, but he still can’t look me in the face. He’s staring off into the distance, probably thinking about how much he detests me at the moment. And as much as I hate to admit it, my cheeks grow hot over being so close to him, even though he’s being distant. I can smell his cologne, and I can see how clean his hair is. _For once._

  
  


“Thank you for the tea...and the scone. And the ride.” 

  
  


He nods, letting go of the steering wheel.

  
  


“I didn’t deserve any of it, but thank you.” 

To my disappointment, he doesn’t acknowledge me. Now, he just looks so sad, and if it weren’t for the ongoing engine, one would certainly hear the shattering of my heart, falling in a million pieces at my feet. 

  
  


“...It’s nothing to do with you. You know that, right? You’re brilliant, David. You’re the epitome of all wonderful traits that exist.” 

“...Flattery won’t work on me.” 

“I wasn’t trying to do that.” 

  
  


We share a short silence, both of us reluctant to depart. 

  
  


“Well,” he finally says, “You should go inside. With this weather, you’re liable to get a cold.” 

  
  


His concern for my well-being, even after I’ve hurt him, is still very present and very touching. And for a second, I question my decision of remaining just his friend. How could I push away a pretty, little thing like him?

  
  


“Right,” I reply, “Erm...Well, let me know if you ever get around to telling Nick and Rick about vacationing. And...drive safely.” 

“All right...Say hi to Vera for me?” 

I smile at his dry jest, despite our tension, “Of course.” 

“Okay.” 

  
  


I back away completely, giving him the space he needs to drive away. Right as he’s about leave, we share one more look as another little farewell. And when he does drive away, I watch his departing car, getting smaller and smaller as he gets farther and farther away from me until I can see him no more. 

With a sigh, I unhatch the small bolt on my front fence, closing it behind me and ambling up my concrete walkway. I climb up my porch stairs with a laziness, dreading entering my home to find that the absolute silence is deafening. Only the soft mews and the clicking of nails against wooden floor from my cat to save my sanitation from dissipating. When I unlock my front door, an involuntary smile spreads across my face as I find Vera waiting for me at the door, meowing in content over my arrival. I crouch after closing the door, gently scratching behind her left ear as she leans into my touch. Then, she begins sniffing my hand, discovering traces of smells that I caught while out. David’s coat comes to mind, and how it probably smelled like his cologne. I’m almost certain she’s familiar with his scent, but I can’t help but snicker when she accusingly gazes at me, as if demanding who I was with and why I was with them. I pick her up, caressing her back affectionately while I bring us down to the little studio in my basement. I let her roam around, and explore the basement’s nooks and crannies as I sit down on my usual chair in front of my desk. There’s papers scattered about. Old and new lyrics, new compositions, random titles for nonexistent albums, some doodles. I think about David’s earlier words, how there’s absolutely no knowledge in the world that can replace the genuine feeling of belonging somewhere, and someone else belonging to you. I think about how he couldn’t have said it any better. 

I want to use this feeling, use it for my lyrics. I want to embrace those words, think about them over and over, let myself feel the slight bewilderment that comes with them. Bewilderment, because they’re somehow the only words that can perfectly express the feeling of seeing everything clearly, wanting to protect someone, wanting them to always smile at you and wanting them to be there for you while you do the same. It’s unmistakable, really. It’s almost as good as self-actualisation, in a sense. He really went out on a limb, and I respect him for that. 

I believe love is more complex than it really is, and although it’s just a feeling, I am swayed by it every time I think I feel it. It swallows me whole until I get carried away with it, and don’t want to face the things that can go wrong. When that happens, the deliberately blind side of my being refuses to see the flaws in myself or the other person. And the result is always me with a broken heart. I realise now that I don’t want this to happen with me and David. I’m terrified of letting him see who I really am. So I suppose it was a good thing when he asked me if I had the nerve to forget about him and move on, because it sounds so doable coming from his mouth. And although I really wish it were that easy, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let the idea of him go now.

I really wish I could’ve told him this.

  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What else do you do on a lonely Sunday night other than indulge in blue musings and warm your belly with three fingers of Jack Daniel's?

_22 July, 1973_

  
  
  
  
  
  


Two dull weeks have passed since the heart-shattering rendezvous in Notting Hill, and I have not heard from David since then. It feels as though it was only just yesterday that I was sitting across from him, making sure my feet didn’t bump into his under the eggshell-coloured table, taking note of the meanderings of veins in his fidgety hands, brushing his light arm hairs with my eyes, drinking in the sight of his rosy lips whenever he would sip his tea and they would be moist...Then, like a suffocating wave, came the draining of the colour in his face, the stern eyebrows, the frigidity in his tone, the sunken posture when the words of rejection escaped my big, dumb mouth. And the hurtful hastiness in his movements when he took care of the check, as the final blow. 

It was the first time I had ever felt such feelings of painful insignificance around him. 

Despite this, despite my long existing awareness of his despondency over my rejection and the vivid images of his sorrow, I still wake up everyday and pathetically hope to hear his knocks on my door, or the ghastly and relieving ringing of my telephone. To happily allow his graceful body to invade my seldom perforated bubble, and have our minds run in parallel. He could spout on about anything, and I’ll drop everything to listen. Drool oozing down my lower lip as I’m under his spell and everything. When I surrender to his other, warmer gaze, it’s like falling on a bed of spongy clouds and blissfully letting them swallow me whole. It’s like heaven. His piercing blue orbs, their cool intensity, I could never stare for too long, but always need to look again to find out why I couldn’t. 

I ash the tip of my joint, wishing he was here to share it with him. 

His voice, as the clouds cry outside and thunder growls with conviction, could make the blaze of a fireplace redundant, could warm me up better. I can close my eyes now, and clearly hear his silky-voiced larynx speaking to me, a stark contrast to the downpour outside. I can see his lips moving with every word, every certain pronunciation. The tiny glimpse of his pink tongue darting out with every “ _th”_ sound, the deepening of the divot in his chin when he protrudes his lips with words that begin with the letter _o_ , and his tongue delicately touching the roof of his mouth when he says my name...I open my eyes to this dreary reality, and remember, for the millionth time, the perpetual, torturing thought that I’ve brutally cleaved the woven webs of our strange amity. The cold politeness that I’d very much like to avoid is liable to make an appearance. Or perhaps not. Perhaps worse than that...Impassive greetings, addressing each other by our surname, the absence of thank yous and you’re welcomes, unbearably awkward atmospheres, and half-hearted smiles...Just strangers who’ll have to go through the motions of being in the same room. 

There’s also a small part of my being that is writhing with worry over his sudden shunning. I’m scrambling over the blinding possibility that I don’t exist to him anymore, that there’s no longer any space for me, that he’s completely blocked the remembrance of our last, rancorous interaction and locked it away in the special, echoey chamber in his mind where he houses bad memories. I hope he still remembers who I am when the day comes that we see each other again. I’ll hate him–and hate _myself_ exceedingly–if he pretends to be unaware of me. What if I have something to say to him? A joke, a praise, an idea for a composition, or even an intrinsic “How are you”? I don’t want there to be a single tincture of resentment obstructing his ability to look me in the eye. _So why do I feel hopeless thinking this way?_

Lately, I’ve been thinking about just that. His eyes. 

That day when we were together, and he was seeing me off, even when wearing the most sorrowful expression, I’m not ashamed to confess that he looked...astonishingly beautiful. Otherworldly. I’ve never seen a pair of eyes so expressive and profound. He’s not afraid in the slightest to display what he’s feeling, and he’s absolutely comfortable under his own skin. _But...is it possible that he’s risking manifesting vulnerability? Could it be?_ My frustration is so powerful, that a literal groan erupts from my throat as I aimlessly glare at the clouds from the interior of my living room windowsill, willing them to part for the sun. Stupid clouds. Looming over everyone like a higher power. Eclipsing the sun, making every colour down here seem dull. When will sun rays shine down, enhance everything like a bright painting, and make me smile? When will they illuminate dying flowers, pavements, bodies of water, somber faces, and create a pretty harmony with blue skies for David? When will all of these saturnine clouds quit being his incentive for moving away from home? My heart begins to pound with a strange sense of gratitude at the thought that he’s under these same clouds, drinking his morning tea, doing David Things and probably having the same thoughts I’m having, tossing them back and forth in his mind. But he’s far, unreachable, and the whispering red, little devil on my shoulder immediately crushes my short-lived content in double blows. 

After taking the last few puffs, I stub out my joint in a nearby ashtray. 

I stand, stretching my arms over my head. My beloved Vera follows suit on the ledge of the windowsill, lazily lying on her side and stretching her fore and hind legs before her. I lightly smile, and entertain the idea of letting go of David-y thoughts, and having a few drinks by myself. 

I head over to my kitchen, my special wooden cabinet calling out my name, glowing in all its glory. I succumb and the next minute, I’m pouring silky, intoxicating Jack Daniel’s into a small glass cup. Behind me, I hear petite nails clicking against the floor, approaching and approaching until a soft meow breaks the silence. I turn, and find my sleepy-eyed kitty sitting near the marble counter. _“I see you’ve started without me.”_

  
  


“Sorry,” I murmur to her, “You can’t have any.” 

  
  


She lets out a soft grumble at the back of her throat, as if offended, and walks off, leaving me alone once more. 

  
  


“Walk of shame, walk of shame.” 

  
  


And as the room becomes deafeningly silent, only the comfort of the deluge of rain outside, I realise how truly alone I am. How truly old I feel. I miss...not Judith...but the noises of living with another being. The television in the background, the running of shower water, the crackling of something cooking in the kitchen, the comforts of thinking out-loud...

Comforts, comforts, comforts. 

I don’t have what I used to have, but this inebriant in my hand will certainly help in comforting me. At least for the night. And with that, I prepare for the burn of it on my tongue, in my throat, and my stomach. 

  
  


“Cheers to solitude.” 

  
  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

_23 July, 1973_

  
  
  
  
  


The dim radiance of the morning sun pours itself through the sliver of space between my curtains, casting a narrow strip of gleaming light across my bed, and it’s the second inherent thing that squeezes the drowsiness out of me, making it absorb through the mattress and surely drip on the floor in puddles. The first thing being the downy, puffy tail of a certain cat in slumber beside me, tickling my neck and cheek. I gently place it behind her hind legs, and sit up on the edge of my bed, instantaneously feeling the wicked repercussions of last night’s drinking. I stay seated awhile, face in my hands, deliberately playing for time over the inevitability of vertigo, vile nausea, and pounding headaches. 

I glance at my alarm clock on the nightstand. Eleven thirty-four. 

Instead of berating myself for exceeding the hour I usually rouse at, I leave my cocoon of bedclothes and unnecessary pillows with a slight feeling of loss, and, dragging my feet, head to the bathroom connected to my room. The second I step inside, my eyes involuntarily squint and moisten over the whiter-than-white walls, glowing under the full-blown sunlight streaming in through the one window. A discomforting pulsing sensation in both my temples accompanies my momentary blindness as I turn to the sink. _Too lazy for a shower._ Repressing the wince that wants to escape over my appearance in the mirror’s reflection, I brush my teeth with an uncharacteristic sluggishness and wash my face in the same manner. _Too lazy for a change of clothes._ And unashamedly, I walk past my undone bed, leaving my companion to her dreams. _Too lazy to tidy up._ With a steady hand on the wooden railing, I make my way downstairs to the kitchen, rubbing the last few remnants of somnolence away from my eyes.

When I fill Vera’s attached food bowls with sustenance, it feels as if gravity is especially weighing down my muscles, evincing the universe’s way of punishing me for my recent bad decisions. And shockingly, like a punch to the gut, the smell of her food immediately sickens me, and I feel the need to gag. _Come on, hold it together._ Swallowing down the threateningly bitter acidity of brewing bile, I quickly put the food away, and then fill my stovetop tea kettle with hot water. 

I highly doubt I would be able to stomach anything at the moment, so I settle with just having the usual morning tea. Above the microwave, with a red blender and rarely-used coffee maker crammed in the corner, lies my favourite cabinet. Always left ajar. Behind it, rows of oolong tea-bags await me every morning. The slight opening, the slight peek inside, the overcrowding, it’s all for me. I wrap my fingers around the bar handle, opening the cabinet as it creaks, and when I reveal the inside of it, a fleeting feeling of nostalgia washes over me at the sight of my stash, just for a minute, as my mind goes to a warm place. 

How does he know what my favourite tea-bag is? I’ve never told him. How did he catch something so small, so insignificant, and turn it into something that means so much? 

I quickly try to push these thoughts away...But, wait, was I really that deprived of sense? No, no. No more intrusion. 

I procure a single tea-bag, and place it inside my favourite mug with the thread dangling on the outside. In no more than five minutes, the tea kettle is whistling throughout the entire kitchen, blowing steam out of its spout. In a surprisingly swift motion, I turn off the gas, and, with a dry cloth, grab the top handle of the kettle to pour the steaming liquid into my mug, steeping the tea-bag. I gather milk from the fridge and grab my prominent sugar jar to combine my tea with a little bit of sweetness. Not too much. Not too little. Just the way I like. But I’m barely given the chance to unscrew the cap of the milk carton when the startling ringing of the doorbell penetrates the peaceful silence. 

I freeze.

_No...It couldn’t be...Right?_

I abandon the milk, the sugar, the tea, everything, and draw near to the cupboard protectively containing all of the china behind glass doors. Flower-printed tea cups, their accompanying little saucers, teapots, never before used forks and knives, and plates...Why did I ever let Judith convince me? I look down the hallway, past the staircase, past the living room, where my front door is visible. The lack of electrical light in the hallway, the lonely little table accompanied by a telephone on the surface and a single framed painting of a bundle of tulips hanging above, all give way to...whoever is on the other side. _Can’t be. It’s not._ This liminal space, this light at the end of the tunnel, do I want to expose myself to it? What if my prayers have been answered? 

With silent, bare footsteps, I approach the hallway, momentarily engulfing myself in darkness and trying to dispel any unease. Then I stop before the front door. The doorbell rings again. I hear quiet, brief, muffled chatter. Somewhat familiar. A subtle feeling of solace permeates me. I now know that there’s more than one person, but that only makes me become even more painfully mindful of my, as I call it sometimes, slothful semblance. 

An impatient knock sounds this time, and I detach the door chain and unlock the doorknob. The brightness of the outside hits me like a slap to the face. Like a vampire exposed to sunlight. But instead of suffering from the excruciating pain of having my skin scorched off because of the sun’s blaze, the throbbing in my temples intensifies. It takes a brief moment for my eyes to adjust, and when they stop squinting, I find my three bandmates standing on my porch. Instantly, my ears are invaded by the twittering of birds and sounds of distant cars, and the earthy smell emanating from wet cement reaches my nostrils, a pleasurable result of yesterday’s deluge. It’s one of those odd and clear-cut smells you’ve gotten so used to catching a whiff of all the time, that you actually start to like it. 

Nick, in place of a greeting, eyes me up and down, cocking an eyebrow in surprise, “Well...this is a first. Our dear Roger has ceased caring.” 

My tunnel vision immediately zeroes in on the man standing at the back, behind my fellow mates, putting all of his weight against one of my porch pillars in a strikingly nonchalant manner. He’s looking right back at me with this half bashful look, and it’s enough to make anyone’s blood boil in all the right places. He’s wearing _that_ coat, the one I held so carefully in my hands two weeks ago as if it were a fragile artifact. A few stray strands of hair travel with the gust, and they blow across his face. His gaze, I’m surprised it’s not cold. It’s not blank. It’s far from that. The corners of his lips are slightly upturned, like he’s actually glad to see me. And there it is, the indubitable pounding of the very vital organ in my chest, the weakening in the knees, the slight difficulty with making my lungs function properly. Oh, how I wish I had freshened up. Without leaving a too long silence before replying, I give my attention back to Nick. 

“I just woke up a few minutes ago,” are my first words of the day as I unwittingly rub my eye. 

“Yes, I can see that.”

“Another first,” Rick chimes in, “You don’t look so good.” 

With a soft grumble at Rick’s unnecessary remark, I step aside as an invitation, shuddering slightly at the harsh breeze that is trickling into my cozy home, gooseflesh appearing on my naked arms and legs. Rick follows suit after Nick, and then I meet _his_ piercing stare as he walks in before me. Like I expected, like I’ll always expect, my own eye contact falters under his own. There’s a look on his face that I can only discern as abstruse amusement, but I’m not sure why that’s the only thing that comes to mind. Like I’m not being let in on a joke. _Perhaps I’m the joke. With my baggy shirt, yellow shorts, and tangled tresses, looking like I’ve just suffered through a tornado._

As I close the door, I inhale the sweet, sweet trail of cologne he’s left behind, and so many pleasant and unpleasant memories unfold inside my head, like little frames of a reel’s filmstrip in motion. Memories I’ve made even before starting to acquaint myself with this latent part of my being. Cramped quarters in the touring van with his signature scent wafting in the hot and sticky atmosphere, entering the bathroom after he’s been inside when the four of us have shared an entire hotel room, his one and only fragrance pervading the air, being led inside his hotel room back in June, under the pretense of a backgammon match and television watching, and realising, the morning after, that his prominent odor had stained my skin. The car ride home after Nottinghill two weeks ago, his sweet smell in contrast with his dour eyes and icy words. But I find I don’t care; the unpleasant memories can stay as long as he never stops smelling like this. 

We instinctively head to my kitchen. 

“So what brings you boys ‘round?” 

“Mm...Mostly boredom,” says Nick, claiming a seat at the dining table. 

“Well, we were in the area,” says Rick to take the attention off of Nick’s bluntness, occupying the seat next to him, “Thought it wouldn’t hurt to visit.” 

“Hm. I was just making tea, any takers?” 

“Yes, please,” Nick speaks for everyone. 

I fill the kettle with hot water again, this time a more generous amount. I continue where I left off, pouring a small amount of milk inside my beverage, and adding just two teaspoons of sugar. I acquire three ivory tea cups along the way, and delve into my tea cabinet again. 

“Ah, yes. Stocking up for hibernation, Rog?” Nick says, drumming his fingers on the table and eliciting little chuckles out of the other two. 

“Is that _only..._? Do you have anything else?” Rick inquires, a tinge of a whine in his tone. 

I look over my shoulder, glancing at him with the inscrutable look I attained in my boyhood and have successfully perfected over the years. A variation of my stoicism actually, taken from Mother, master of the stiff upper lip. But I don’t maintain it for long, disregarding him and placing a tea-bag in each of their empty cups. 

“You’ll come to learn this about Roger, Rick, if you haven’t already. Other tea-bags don’t _exist_ in his world.” 

_That’s_ David, our dearly devoted guitar-man. Ever so savvy. 

“Say, where’s your cat?” he speaks again. 

I turn, holding my hot mug in my hands and leaning against the sink, “Erm, upstairs.” 

“Mm. Feels like it’s been forever since I last saw her.” 

For a moment there, as he was saying that, it seemed as though the presences of our comrades may as well have dissipated into oblivion with the way he looked at me, as if I only existed for him. And he’s still looking at me this way. No amusement there on his face now. Just a strangely stirring expectancy that makes me feel fluttery. In his eyes resides a hungry kind of yearning, and it dawns on me that nobody in my life has ever looked at me this way. Not even my own ex-wife. This deep-seated, blatant longing is clear and intent and fixed on my face entirely. I grow breathless again, and look away before I make the mistake of showing him a similar expression. 

“You know, Rog, you should really consider getting a pooch.” _Thank God for Nick._

“Oh no,” Rick contorts his features into disgust, “Don’t.”

“Never in a million years, but go on,” I carefully sip my tea, the image of David’s face still imprinted in my brain. 

“First, they’re possibly the friendliest living things to ever walk the earth...Well, most of them. Second, criticising is absolutely foreign to them. Third, it's easy to keep them entertained. And fourth–” 

Rick scoffs, “But they’re dirty. Cats, on the other hand, clean _themselves_.”

“Actually, dogs do, too.” 

“I’ve never seen it. I don’t think they’re particularly concerned with hygiene,” is smugly retaliated.

I turn away as this conversation seems to go on without including me. While they engage in a debate, with David watching from the sidelines and giggling every once in a while, the kettle starts whistling and I turn off the gas once more. Again, I pour boiling water into their cups, and watch as the pellucid water turns into an appealing golden color. I cautiously place a cup before each of them, providing them with milk, sugar, and teaspoons. Their dispute on cats versus dogs dies down quickly as I take a seat beside David. Then, I realise with relief, that my headache has vanished into thin air. 

“So...what are we going to do?” Nick blurts, taking his turn with the milk. 

“About...?” 

“Well, we have two months left before the last leg of the tour. What should we do?” 

In an instant, I remember the conversation David and I had two weeks ago. 

I glance at him, “David had a wonderful idea. Why don’t you tell them?” 

“You two have been talking?” 

“Not exactly, just...Not too long ago I mentioned to Roger that we should sojourn. You know, enjoy the time we have left before getting back to the grind in October.”

“What’re you thinking?” Rick asks. 

“Anywhere, really,” David says as he looks at me for reinforcement, “Anywhere fun.” 

“I rather liked travelling to Saint-Tropez. Remember that? I still think about it,” Nick recalls.

We all grunt and murmur our reminiscence as we briefly think back to when our lives were relatively simple. _Summer of 1970. Good times._

Nick continues, “How about doing it again?”

“I don’t know,” Rick mumbles, having his turn with the milk, then passing it to David shortly after, “If we’re really doing this, then I think I’d like to go somewhere exotic. Croatia and the like.” 

“David mentioned Belize. How about that?” I say, sipping my tea. _Need to stop thinking and saying his name lest I drive myself mad._

“Belize...We’ve never gone, have we?” 

“No, but I think I’m with Nick on this one,” David says, preoccupied with adding sugar to his tea. Too sweet, just how he likes it. “Yes, we’ve gone already, but let’s look at the pros. I speak the language already, so I’d be able to navigate us with no difficulty, and we might already know where some places are. Plus, we’ll have fun anyway. I know I wouldn’t mind visiting again. We could rent a whole villa. By the beach even.” 

Nick then brings up a good point in regards to his family. 

“Yes, I don’t think Jules would appreciate being left at home,” Rick mutters, taking out his carton of Marlboro Reds from his pocket, “You know, with a child.” 

I extend my arm to him, flicking my fingers in place of actually asking for a cigarette. He doesn’t refuse anyway. He knows better. “Bring them along, then.” 

From the corner of my eye, in my peripheral vision, I see David glance at me, rubbing his chin in thought. Would he rather just the four of us go? 

  
  


“The more the merrier, right?” Nick says, “But...I don’t think I would bring my children...Leave them with a relative, or a nanny, or even one of Lindy’s girlfriends.” 

“Yeah,” Rick says in agreement, lighting the cigarette that hangs from his mouth, then passing his lighter to me. 

“Are we all in agreement, then?” I pull on my cigarette. 

Again, as a feeling of content rises within me over how quickly we came to an agreement this time, we murmur our consensus.

.. .. ..

After downing our tea, then drinking more tea, and smoking almost the entirety of Rick’s cigarettes with a repressed frown radiating from him, we decided that Saturday would be the perfect day of the week to leave. We even made a mental note of inviting Steve and his wife, Linda. _But secretly–and I know we all thought the same way–our reason for inviting him is to put him in charge of arranging the flight, really._ We’re highly aware that he’s liable to get offended if he were to call one of us, only to find out that no one has been home for a while. 

Nick had suggested we leave on Sunday evening to take care of anything important we have to do throughout the week, and finish the weekend with a bang. But Rick had adamantly shook his head, saying that Juliette’s parents had invited them both to their Sunday family dinner, and he would really like to avoid it at all costs. 

It was nearing two in the afternoon when they all rose from their chairs, and lingered in my kitchen for a minute longer before letting their visit come to an end. 

“So, Rog, we’re heading off to Folkies. Want to come?” Nick asks me, pushing in his chair, but leaving his empty cup on the table. 

I feel all of their eyes on me as I stand and answer, “Erm...I’d like to, honestly, but I’m feeling sort of stagnant. I think I’m going to stay inside today.” 

Rick is the first one to tear his eyes away, making his way towards the hallway already as if he expected my decline. While Nick throws his hands up in slight acquiescent acceptance of my decision, David seems hesitant to turn his heels the other way and leave, making me rethink my turndown for a split second. 

“All right. Suit yourself,” Nick goes on, “While you sit around all day, sulking, me and the boys are going to pass the time perambulating in musical heaven. Toodles.” 

_...I am not sulking..._ As soon as they’re out of sight, I let out an uncharacteristic whine as I turn to look at all the dishes I used yesterday. Just before wallowing in self-pity and then drinking myself into a stupor last night– _Just an ordinary Sunday night–_ I left behind glassware in the sink, which is soaking in now tepid water, morsels of disgusting, mushy comestibles floating in the water like tiny, little fish. Somewhere and some time ago, while on tour, I eavesdropped on a conversation and picked up on someone’s suggestion of leaving your dirty dishes soaking in hot, soapy water overnight, so in the morning, they’ll be clean and all you have to do is rinse them. _“But don’t expect it to work with burnt stains.”_

I check to see if their suggestion is on the mark, draining the water, and find the pristine glare of my plates staring right back at me. Quite content with my negligence this time, I begin rinsing and placing them in neat rows in the remarkably spick and span dish drying rack beside the sink. Over the running water, I heard my house subsequently become silent as soon as the others opened my front door, and closed it, but a growing confusion and perhaps even a slight fear builds up within me when I hear quiet footsteps approaching my kitchen. 

“Roger,” says a voice behind me that I know so well. 

With my hands drenched in now cold water, I turn off the faucet and look over my shoulder to find that David has walked into my kitchen again, that familiar smirk on his face. The one that sparks into my head at random times of the day, like a miniature firework. He’s standing with his arms crossed against the counter, keeping a reasonable distance between us.

“What’re you doing back here?” 

“Told them I had to use the loo.”

I occupy myself with gathering the empty cups on the table to still my now shaky hands, as I endeavour to avoid prying into his decision of lying to our bandmates. As the humiliating thought that I probably look like a deer in headlights begins haunting me. A deer with embarrassingly bright yellow shorts. _Yellow, the colour of cowardice._ He grabs the last cup, seeing as how he was in close proximity to it, and hands it to me. His thick fingers brush against mine, and I nearly drop the cup. 

“Need help?” 

“No, I’m all right.” 

Momentarily, I turn my back on him to get rid of the soggy tea-bags, and place the cups in the sink, groaning internally at the thought that I still have to clean these cups anyway. 

“I just want to talk. For a minute.”

I turn to face him, “About what?” 

“Nothing in particular, just…” he shrugs, “How’ve you been?” 

“Erm...Fine, fine.” 

“...Have you been writing, still?” 

“Getting inspired lately, so...yes.” 

“...Hm. And...you’re not going to show me, right?” he asks, a shy smile gathering on his face. 

I want to repress my own smile, but I cannot, “Afraid not. You’ll have to wait and see.” 

He smiles even wider, but as the seconds tick by, it disappears along with our confidence to speak again. We let knowing silence take the reins for a seemingly long moment, making it difficult to look at each other again even if we were just doing it a minute ago. I contemplate leaving this situation entirely by letting him know that I have to tidy up the house, and that I have some writing to do, but I know myself. I know how bad my need is for him to stay here with me for a little while longer, even if it’s possessed by his excuse of needing to use the bathroom. 

“Don’t you have to go? They’ll start wondering,” I break the ice, lazily gesturing towards the hallway, towards the front door. 

“Yes, erm...No, actually, I lied. There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you. For a couple of days now. And I didn’t want to do it over the phone.” 

I almost don’t want him to ask me anything or even look at me because of this inexplicable dread I feel, but instead of choosing to be a fool, I don’t do anything but stare to let him know he can continue. But he beats around the bush, stepping a little closer to me and stumbling over how to even begin, a soft tinge of pink surfacing into his cheeks. If it weren’t for the sink behind me, I’d feel compelled to back away, the Yellow in my soul undoubtedly making its presence conspicuous. 

“...Are we still friends?” he finally manages to blurt. In a whisper so timid and so unsure and so unlike him, it nearly breaks my heart. 

Are we still friends? That’s something I’ve been asking myself lately, too. With the way we left things the last time we saw one another, it’s very easy to say no. That because of me, now there’s a certain powerful strain on our relationship. Something that will remain unvoiced, something that will go on endlessly, relentlessly. Something that contradicts the reassurance of _E_ _verything will be okay._ An unfinished business. But I don’t want to tell him that. After he mustered all this courage, I want to spare him the truth. 

“...Of course,” I tell him, internally wincing at the tension he releases from his shoulders after exhaling in relief, “Always.”

“Are you sure? I mean, I know we both sort of disappeared for awhile. I didn’t mean to, it just...I didn’t mean to.” 

“I’m sure, David. And I believe you.” 

“Well, okay. I’m glad,” he smiles, “Erm, so...Hopefully I’ll see you on Saturday, then?” 

“Of course. Saturday.” 

His smile lingers, twitching and meaningful, but it has an eloquent quality to it. Like he’s been holding it in for the longest time, and today, here in my home, is the day he finally decided to let it show. _My, I feel special._ I observe as he turns to depart. Now, his steps are confident. Graceful. Precise. Out of furtive interest, I realise his hair has gotten slighter longer, going just over his shoulder blades. And has he been lifting weights?

“You know,” he begins, standing under the doorframe of the hallway, “I could never stay mad at you. Yes, you’re one hell of a crosspatch, but I quite like that about you. Stay that way, yeah?” 

I can feel the shells of my ears grow hot as I nod, flattered over the fact that he likes what I hate most about myself. Does he keep close to his heart complex and in-depth perceptions of me, as I do of him? And does he know how affectionate he just sounded? 

And just as I think my cheeks have reached their maximum blush, he says without shame–

“By the way, yellow suits you.” 


End file.
